


Corps

by 45teid



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Ballet, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Ballet Dancer Louis, Eating Disorders, Friends to Lovers, Getting to Know Each Other, Internalized Homophobia, Lack of Communication, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Photographer Harry, just like how i didn't talk to any actual ballet dancers before starting to write this, like no one really talks to each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2018-08-13 06:20:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 84,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7965871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/45teid/pseuds/45teid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following a fateful incident and rushed recovery, Louis Tomlinson returns to work at the Royal Ballet with full intentions of climbing back up the ranks to principal dancer without causing any waves. But with a show seemingly designed with him in mind and an endearingly naive photographer he meets in a club toilet, the beckoning call to crack under pressure is ever more difficult to resist.</p><p>Or, in which Louis loves ballet, and Harry loves to love Louis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1. Lento

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction. All representations of real life people are purely fictional and do not reflect any real life events. The story, and its characters, belong to me.
> 
> Thank you for reading. xx
> 
> Note:  
> Edits ongoing !! Come back later.

“I’m not going.”

Niall is in no way fazed by Zayn’s protests, hasn’t been since they first started two hours prior as grumpy whining about having had plans to stay in and binge some Netflix show until someone would have to literally come over to see if he was okay.  Since then Niall had changed, relocated them both to Louis’ apartment, and changed again, now meticulously arranging his hair in the bathroom mirror with the door wide open so as to fully bless them with the upbeat stylings of a Girls’ Night Out playlist, albeit mostly masked by his own histrionic crooning.  
  
“ _...giving it MY all, but I'm not the GUYYY you're taking hoooome, ooohhh…”_  
“I know you can hear me, you wanker!”  
“I _’ll keep DANCIIIING on my ooooown_ ,” he dips his head out so they can see him singing along to the backup vocals as well, moodier and far more serious-looking to mimic Zayn’s own facial expression.  
  
The plan was to get plastered at the nearest club with everyone Niall had ever spoken to in his life,  or at least everyone that happened to be free and available at the time he decided the end of the week warranted a drunken ‘night on the town’. This unfortunately included his dearest friend and flatmate Zayn in spite of, or maybe directly because of, his tendency to avoid the party scene like the plague, which is why he’s currently slumping on Louis’ couch, periodically throwing him loaded glances in search of moral support.  
  
Some even come off as pleading. Louis just shrugs.

For all his intimidating good looks, Zayn is too often reduced to this sulky version of himself around them, where it can’t be mistranslated as brooding or mysterious as it might be to an outsider. It keeps him humble when they ignore it, Niall argues, knocks him down a peg, and Zayn usually agrees after the fact but he’s a bit of a despondent nightmare during. Niall might be taking advantage of this unspoken agreement in ths case athough, so when Zayn makes another complaint Louis nods in half-hearted consensus.

“I‘d like to point out that I don’t make _you_ stay home with me when you want to go out. So...”  
  
With no intention of humouring his latest bitter comment, Niall emerges from the bathroom with a haunting smile, vigorously shaking a can of hairspray for dramatic effect.  
“Zayn, sweetie, why don’t you check if you’re outside?”  
“What?”  
He groans theatrically at Zayn’s blank-faced expression, making a pointed hand motion towards the front door, “leave the room, the _adults_ need to _talk_.”  
  
A series of emotions cross over Zayn’s face then, spanning actual shock to genuinely considering homicide. Regardless, he gets up with a huffed “unbelievable…”, his leather jacket and his lighter, slamming the door just as Niall yells,  
  
“You better be out there when I come get you!”  
  
They hear grumbling from outside, some hushed expletives. Niall turns to Louis.  
  
“Open plan makes that so dramatic.” He sprays his hair enough to work up a storm, “You ready to go back to your roots?”  
“My--- No, no, I think I’ll sit this one out.”  
A sigh as he sets down the can, seemingly just to have more hands to gesture with.  
“Right, yeah, changed man, but one last time? I’m begging you. Otherwise no amount of bottomless shots will make this boy forget that I let you off and dragged him to get drunk with Liam and his buddies.”  
  
He does genuinely look like he might drop to his knees and beg; suddenly Zayn’s pleading looks seem inconsequential. Yet the name makes Louis retract.  
  
“Liam’s coming? Brutal.”  
“Oh yeah,” Niall chuckles awkwardly, apparently only now realising how much a premeditated ex-boyfriend face-off will piss off Zayn, “Maybe don’t mention that to him. Tryna matchmake, y’know? I mean _technically_ Liam has a girlfriend now, but…”  
  
_Yikes._ “This is a lost cause.”  
“It’s not! They dated, like, forever, and he is clearly not happy, or over it. Neither is Liam.” An extended pause. Niall reconsiders. “I think.”  
“So it’s not about drinking at all…”  
“Oh, it is. I’m trying to drown the blow of getting a 2:2 on my last assignment when everyone else skated by. Even mentioning it now makes me want to drop out, so, hurry up agreeing.”  
  
He doesn’t like the assumption, but he wouldn’t mind a night out. Having spent the last couple of weeks exclusively in the flat, occasionally popping down to Tesco’s to restock the basics and pushing the limits of how much he’s allowed to work out, he’s basically on a lenient version of house arrest. Were it not for the overly concerned (and consequently overly frequent) visits from Zayn and Niall, he might have forgotten that there even was anything left outside, much less that it was all fine operating without him in it. Maybe it would be better to forget. Certainly would be better not to be relentlessly monitored like he has been...  
  
Louis raises an eyebrow as Niall bounces up and down on the balls of his feet, antsy for an answer.  
“You think Uni did this to you? You’re never going to get your liver back.”  
“My organs are my business. I don’t comment about how fucked up your feet are gonna be by 30.”  
“Sacrifices.”  
“Exactly! You sacrifice one night of sitting in your janky apartment watching reruns of _Angelina Ballerina_ or whatever the fuck it is you do here…”  
“Do you have an issue with my apartment?”  
“I think I preferred it when Zayn still lived here. It’s kind of depressing now, like, messy and empty at the same time.”  
“I like the space.”  
“It’s objectively too big for one person. You looking to start a family, Tommo?”  
“As _fucking_ if.”  
  
Niall grins, convinced he’s won. Not that there’s much to win, since Louis would take any half-legitimate excuse to go back out drinking and making poor choices without it being flagged as yet another cause for concern. And he won’t be alone. _Because we can’t have that._  
“Oi! Mate!”  
  
Zayn responds to the summon instantly, though retaining the same tragic expression he had originally carried in.  
“What?”  
“Soooo, your mother and I have decided…”  
Louis tries to pass his involuntary snort off as a cough, but Zayn glares at them both in equal measure.  
“Fuck. Off.”  
“... Celebrations are in order! You just completed your la-di-dah tattoo apprenticeship, yay you. Got yourself a marginally higher hourly rate so no more ‘I’m a freelance artist Niall can you cover the internet bill?’ while you rack it up every night with miserable wanks…”  
“...This is meant to make me change my mind?”  
“... _And_ Tommo is going back to the RB, yay employment, they love him almost as much as we do…”  
  
The glare-knotted brows soften into concern, eyes giving away a sense of genuine alarm as he meets Louis’ at a standstill.  
“You’re coming with us?”  
“WITH _US_ , Yes! You’re getting it, bro!”  
He passes Niall’s gleeful shriek as if he hadn’t even heard it.  
“Shouldn’t you…”  
“It’ll be fine.” Louis clears his throat, “Don’t worry about it.”  
  
“Yeah great, ANYWAY,” Niall dives back into their line of vision, launching himself into the sofa space next to Louis and roping an arm over his shoulder before he can casually pull away, “There’s been lots of career love for the Capricorns, so now it’s time for the play part. The stars are aligned and that. We need to celebrate your achievements by _publicly_ showing our appreciation to the forces that be so that they’re like, ‘sick, we wanna see more of this drunken debauchery, let’s throw them a lottery ticket, specifically to that Irish one, he’s got great socks’ or something.”  
  
Zayn stares at him incredulously, arms folded. Louis finally breaks the collectively baffled silence.  
“...What?”  
“You gotta believe in something. Maybe fate’s got something in store for you. Maybe there’s _love_ love for the Capricorns too.”  
“What about you,” Zayn says, so quickly roped into the half-hug when he sits back down that Niall essentially knocks the rest of his comment out of him, “What are we celebrating of yours?”  
  
“I’m a selfless man, friends. Today we celebrate you, my way. And in a couple of years when I’m loaded and you need a loan because the arts don’t pay as well then I will have your back and we can celebrate _me,_ at home, with a movie, however you want. I will even provide takeout, though my personal chef will be personally offended...”  
Zayn grins despite himself, the retort too tempting to pass up.  
“Don’t call your mum that...”  
“Great!” Niall declares, freeing Louis as he envelopes Zayn in a faux death grip, “I’ll take that as a ‘yes Niall, what a great plan, say ‘Hi!’ to Mrs Horan for being a great, noble woman who wouldn’t appreciate such a low blow to her son’s good intentions in taking his _ungrateful_ best mates out so that they don’t become recluses who never shower’...”  
  
“And _that,_ ” he continues, letting Zayn escape with most of his quiff intact, “Was a dig at you, Tommo. Get changed. Pre-drinks are taken care of.”  
He passes him a bottle of vodka from his bag and then bounds off to the kitchen, returning with one of two novelty glasses he had forced him to keep; the ‘tit’ one, where the glass was moulded into a pair of breasts decorated with now cracking four-leaf clovers that form a green bikini top. Louis ponders the depressing fact that this glass will outlive both him and everyone he knows, and hastily takes a shot to think about something else.  
  
Zayn used to be the anti-party minority back in the day, making it much easier to convince and drag him along whenever Louis would instigate bar crawls, club nights, anything to get out of the house and consume whatever the fuck would get them wasted in the shortest space of time possible. Being surrounded by masses of people you either don’t know or don’t remember, downing three-too-many shots of something or other with little care for the eventual repercussions, actually feeling alive for a couple of glorious hours of euphoria, that was his rush. Niall tagged along for the laugh, but it wasn’t his escape like it was Louis’. And to think he’s almost forgotten what any of it feels like...  
  
Niall checks up on him as the playlist loops back to _Feeling Myself_ , pushing Louis aside with a huff to shuffle through his closet himself, quickly producing a sheer black armless T shirt and an old pair of black jeans and feeding him another shot before he can object. They’re definitely going to be too tight on him but the alcohol burns too much going down for him to really debate why he pulls both items of clothing on regardless. He’s up another 97, so that’s 194. He switches out the shirt for a jumper.  
  
“I just think it’s a bad idea to facilitate shit like this,” is what he hears then, the kind of irritated whisper that would probably come off quieter if it was spoken at a normal volume, “It’s self-destructive.”  
Niall seems to grasp this fact before Zayn shushes him too.  
“Oh come on, it’s just a bit of-- bit of fun. He’s been cooped up here forever. Deserves a break by now.”  
“That’s not a break. This is turning him back around towards all his old devices, and right before he goes back to work? _That_ won’t end badly...”  
“He’ll be heavily supervised. What’s your deal? He’s like, my kid too.”  
“That’s not funny, Niall. Caring about doing this right is not funny. It’s really fucking important.”  
“It’s not like he’s paying me off for this, I just figure we all need a drink. And we _are_ celebrating.”  
  
It takes an insurmountable amount of strength not to take a swing at one of them, doesn’t particularly matter which one. He steps out as casually as he can manage and hopes he doesn’t sound as cold as he feels.  
  
“Better get going, Ni, else he’ll change his mind…”  
Niall grins and Zayn forces something similar, too slow disguising his otherwise stiff posture. They know each other too well for Louis not to notice though, so it only irks him more.  
The secret conference for the much-concerned that he had interrupted is formally concluded with Niall’s over-compensating announcements as they wait downstairs for the taxi he had insisted on.  
“Got a big night ahead of us, lads, the gang reunites!”  
Louis is certain Zayn’s simply put a pin in it. He ignores his flash of a sarcastic smile at the ‘gang’ descriptor, and avoids any more eye contact once they’re in the cab.

By the time the taxi driver finds Louis’ apartment block and then the club, Liam and co are already waiting outside, laughing and chatting in a queue of far more frequent club-goers, headed by a neon sign occasionally flickering against the black exterior of the building. The ‘gang’ get out of the cab with the bare minimum amount of grace, Louis brushing off the hand Zayn offers him as Niall pays the driver with even less grace.  
  
“I’m just saying if you-- Fine, yeah, cheers mate! Fuckin’ knob…”  
  
“Over here guys! Hey Lou,” Liam waves them over, smiling, no doubt already geared to distract from the conflict, “Niall, Zayn, long time no see.”  
  
He’s always liked Liam, who understood implicitly that Louis would’ve always chosen Zayn in the ‘great Ziam divorce settlement’ Niall dubbed the split as, since they only met through their relationship anyway. They hadn’t spoken since then, Louis having neglected both the Get Well Soon card and the Happy Birthday one with the excuse of classic best friend loyalty, but the warm way in which Liam regards him doesn’t expose any resentment. He doesn’t even look surprised to see Zayn, addressing him in much the same way, though as soon as he looks away Zayn looks like he might pass out.  
  
It’s begrudging, but Louis places his arm on his shoulder as some comfort, half a white flag, and Zayn welcomes the gesture. He’s no less annoyed, but responsibilities remain.

Admittedly, he fades out a bit during introductions as Liam shares some anecdotes of how everyone met and Niall exchanges thumping embraces with the friends of friends he recognises (and some that he doesn’t), though Louis does spot the familiar faces of Oli, Calvin and Briana.  
“Harry’s running a little late so he’ll meet us inside, but apart from that I think we’re all set!”  
  
As soon as they set foot inside, the atmosphere strikes a chord in Louis, one he had buried under weeks of self-pity. Some droning beat transports Zayn and Louis to the bar while Liam claims the lavish seating further back; it is a privilege of distance away from the heap of gyrating bodies on the dance floor which is why Zayn is relatively easily convinced to be dragged there by Niall a couple minutes later, the arguing stifled with his gin and tonic. Louis, on the other hand, decides on a swanky bar stool and makes himself comfortable. Since these old days style celebrations are off the table for the foreseeable future, he’s going to make this night _last._  
  
“Louis, right?” one of Liam’s friends interjects, plonking himself down forcibly on the neighbouring seat. He doesn’t catch Louis wince at the harsh ‘S’.  
“Lou-ee,” he corrects him, “It’s French.”  
“So?”  
“So—SO you don’t pronounce consonants in French, making it Lou-ee not Lou-iss. Different name.”  
He guffaws at this, an awfully grating sound, and Louis buries his scowl in the first (though certainly not last) proper alcoholic beverage of the night.   
  
“I’m Nick.”  
Louis snorts, vaguely recalling Niall’s earlier pep talk, “I’m a Capricorn.”  
“And clearly not interested…”  
“I’m very interested. In this counter, for example.”  
“I get it.”  
“I don’t think you do. That’s some quality woodwork right there, what is that? Oak?”  
The bartender looks a little confused, “I don’t know sir…”  
“Looks like oak. I should know, I’ve seen plenty of wood in my life.”  
The friend laughs, uncomfortable, “getting mixed signals now…”  
“Are you still here?”  
  
Of course, he promptly departs after that, a half-assed excuse as a ticket home, which allows Louis to fully enjoy and savour drinks Two and Three. Briana joins him for the Fourth but they don’t speak save for an enthusiastic “I LOVE YOUR HAIR,” as the music rises. After that, she sips her Cosmopolitan and refreshes Instagram a dozen times, mouthing “WE SHOULD DO THIS AGAIN SOON!” before bounding off to take selfies with some of the guys. Louis wonders vaguely how they even know each other.  
  
After Drink Five, he loses count with Niall ordering several rounds of shots, and they have an increasingly perplexing debate over whether a shot counts as a drink at all; they stop debating once the shots kick in. Somehow Louis is dragged into the sweaty pit of a dance floor, stuck somewhere between a girl hastily introduced as “SOPHIA, LIAM’S BO--GIRLFRIEND!” and Niall, who consistently informs him when ‘their song’ is playing. The people around them begin to grow infuriated when this turns out to be every song, so there’s more room to breathe as everyone gradually inches away from the shrieking pair.  
  
“OOOOH MY GOOOOD, YOU CHANGED!” Niall gasps later, both hands gripping Louis’ jumper like he’s prepared to tear it off. Louis stops laughing to present a sombre expression, placing a hand on Niall’s shoulder as if to console him.  
“PEOPLE… CHANGE… NIALL…”  
“YOUR SHIRT! HOW WILL YOU GET LAID WHEN YOU’RE COVERING YOUR BEST ASS...ET?”  
He tries to laugh but it doesn’t come out. The more he thinks about it the more nauseous he feels.  
“I HAVE TO GO TO THE LOO!” Louis yells over the pounding music, not entirely sure if he’s at all audible.  
“THE LOU?” Niall chortles, burrowing his face in between the other boy’s shoulder and neck until he squirms away, snickering foolishly.  
“I’LL SEE YOU IN A MINUTE!”

The stagger to the bathroom turns out to be a voyage in itself. It takes Louis at least five minutes to distinguish the two illuminated signs as the emergency exit and the men’s toilet, and another five to stumble down the stairs into the dimly lit room, with no urinals but rather a pee trough. Barely seconds after he passes the threshold, one of the cubicle doors opens and Louis walks into what feels like a stone wall. The wall exclaims, “Oops!” but catches him with two very large hands, a firm grip that keeps him from toppling over. Louis manages to raise his forearms to cover up a childish snigger with shaking hands before imparting a giddy, “Hiiiii…”  
  
“You’re very drunk…” the wall remarks with a mildly concerned expression and Louis nods vigorously. The movement doubles his vision and he stumbles again, this time landing his hands on broad shoulders.  
“You good?” the wall asks.  
This is a trick question. He answers slowly, measured.  
“No… ‘M Louis…”  
“You’re… Okay. That’s great. You think you can walk?”  
Another one. _Damn, he’s good…_  
“Don’t know, _can_ I?”  
  
Now steady, Louis starts to discern the shape into a person and his eyes trace the rise and fall of a dimple as the man bites the inside of his lip, deciding how to proceed,  
“Right, um… Let’s get you back to your friends.”  
“Liam! Liam the ex-ex-ex-boyfriend...” Louis suggests helpfully, pointing vaguely in the direction he came from. “Ex-friend? Maybe. Depends.”  
“Payne?”  
“Always, somewhere. Bit…”  
  
He proceeds to vomit into the trough, just about missing the man’s very pointy shoes. The man might be a witch, but Louis isn’t sure. He makes a note to keep an eye on him, though that doesn’t eliminate the potential for crudely timed jokes.  
“Look, no hands!”  
  
The man smiles weakly but doesn’t laugh, which is disappointing, instead wrapping Louis’ arm around his shoulders and holding his own lightly around Louis’ waist for support. Inquisitive as usual in this state, Louis pokes a finger into one of the dimples to determine (scientifically, of course) how deep it goes. Something must be broken because it doesn’t go far at all, so Louis is just touching a strange man’s skin in the middle of a club bathroom. He takes the finger back, frowning.  
“Liam then,” Louis can feel the chuckle in the man’s chest as he escorts him out of the bathroom and onwards through the mayhem, “Let’s hope it’s the same one...”  
  
Once they get past the immediate dancing fervour Louis recognises the bar, delighted to inform the man of this happy coincidence as he is promptly sat down on one of the stools. For a second he swears that the stools spin, and attempts to demonstrate this, but almost falls off. Before he can try again, the man hands him a large glass. Louis sips. Louis is disgusted to realise that it’s just water.  
  
The edge of the man’s mouth quirks at his grimace, and Louis watches him pull his phone out with one massive hand, the blue screen glinting off the silver on his fingers.  
“It’ll do you good. I’ll try to message Liam…”  
“No!” Louis protests.  
“No?”  
“Want a drink!”  
“Think you’re quite alright. Don’t want you having any problems getting home.”  
  
An idea! This is what the goal must have been. Louis draws his hand up the man’s thigh, feels him tense under the touch as if it were forceful or imposing, not trembling and faint.  
“Take me home?”  
He might have him for a moment, he isn’t sure, because he’s looking up through lashes and really, he thinks he’s quite convincing when it gets to this point in the night.  
“No, love. Drink your water.”  
He does as he’s told. Bitterly so.

It turns out it is the very same Liam, which is beyond exciting, as they find him animatedly acting out what appears to be an immensely dramatic but hilarious story (everyone is laughing) next to a very confused and tipsy Zayn (who is not laughing). The tight space gives Louis an excuse to nestle into the man who got him there and he flutters his eyes shut, inhaling the faint scent around the man’s chest. He’s too distracted swaying from side to side to the objectively awful music to pay attention to the now central debate that seems to concern him.  
  
“This a friend of yours?” the man asks, remarkably still. Liam looks puzzled.  
“WHAT?”  
“Is this a friend of yours?”  
He hears him this time, grinning widely with recognition.  
“LOUIS! ‘COURSE!”  
In response to his name Louis drags his cheek against the fabric on the man’s coat, absent-mindedly wondering if there’s a scale to measure softness like there is for other things. This coat should make the top spot, he thinks, but the man’s hair is probably soft too. He can’t touch it, because that’s not a normal thing that normal people do, and he’s already poked a hole in his face, which seems to have been forgiven, but if he also messes up his hair that would be quite rude, so he just keeps that thought as a thought in his head.  
  
“I think he’s had a tad too much to drink…” says the man who does _not_ keep the thoughts in his head. Louis steps on his very pointy shoe but he doesn’t seem to notice. Hmm.  
“OH REALLY?”  
“Maybe we should end the night here? I can drive him home, only just got here…”  
“YOU JUST GOT HERE?”  
“You want to head off too?”  
“TAKE ZAYN… WANTS TO, YEAH. THANKS HARRY.”  
  
Louis recognises Zayn! He loves that bastard. Zayn is apparently sober enough to walk unassisted and recall both his own and Louis’ address as he does so semi-fluently once they’re in the man’s car. He does pass out two blocks before they pull into his driveway, but insists he can make his own way up. Louis only lets him leave after he pulls his face back in the car and plants an affectionate kiss on the top of his head, patting the spot a couple times for good measure.  
  
“Love you! Love you, love you, love you!”  
“Night Lou, love… love you too,” he turns to the man with a wobbly salute, “Thanks.”  
  
They wait for a bit to make sure he gets inside the building, at which point Louis finds himself drifting off in the static warmth of the car. He’s barely conscious as the man starts to make conversation, only vaguely registering the drive being the same weird route the taxi driver had insisted on taking before, and decides to inform the man that he’s wrong.  
  
“Wrong.”  
“Sorry?”  
“You’re wrong.”  
  
He forgets to elaborate, so the man just continues driving.  
  
Talk seems to cease, which is good, because Louis decides that he needs a nap right in this moment, so he starts to snuggle into the seat, eyes just barely open to watch the bright lights speeding past.  
“I should probably introduce myself, what with driving you home and all.”   
No such luck. Louis reckons the man is partially at fault for this new, itching need to doze off. The way he’s talking, low and slow and deep, mulling over every word; he could make an obituary sound like a lullaby.  
“I’m Harry. We were supposed to meet, actually, but you seemed to get lost somewhere and Liam couldn’t find you…”  
“Was at the bar.” Louis offers, apparently incapable of brushing his hair out of his face.  
“Yes, I can see that… here,” he reaches over to tuck the fringe away, “There you go.”  
  
No longer under the bright strobe lights or indeed the fuzzy influence of too many units of alcohol while standing, Louis is given an opportunity to analyse the stranger in the dismal lighting of his car. The pointy shoes are heeled boots, a shiny patent leather, and the coat sits fur-lined, clearly much newer than everything else. He can just about make out the straight edge of his nose and the loose locks of hair that frame his face, falling gently past his chin, the glint of a silver cross hanging over his unbuttoned shirt with similar silvers on the hand he keeps on the steering wheel.

“Louis,” he mumbles after a moment to think, “Name is Louis.”  
Harry grins, wide and dimpled, and Louis watches intently as his lips form around the name as if he's testing it out, the title of a duke or a king.  
“Louis,” he purses his lips in thought, then smiles brightly, "it's lovely to meet you."  
  
He makes a left turn onto the quicker route. The talk continues.  
  
“What do you do then, _Louis_ , besides being at the bar?”  
“Dance.”  
“You’re a dancer?”  
“Mmm,” he nods. “Not… always... at the bar.”  
“No, I should hope not. Wouldn’t help you dancing.”  
“It didn’t! Ha!”  
  
The man smiles again, and Louis wonders what it’s going to take to make him laugh.  
“Harry,” he says with finality, like he’s making a statement.  
“Yes?”  
He forgets what he wants to say after. Harry doesn’t seem to mind.

By the time they arrive to Louis’ block of flats there is no argument whether he can trek the building alone, Harry swiftly leaving the car to open the door for him. Soon, with steady support, they make it into the lift and then down the hall, where Louis drags the man to his door, pointing proudly to the crooked 78.  
“Home!”  
“Glad we got the right address… You feel any better?”  
“Mmm… no.”  
  
Louis bites his lip and looks him down, trying to focus his eyes but to no avail. Harry’s there to grab him when he loses his balance again and Louis laughs wholeheartedly, chest to chest, inches away from his face. There’s nothing inherently funny, it’s more the growing frequency of these collisions and the nervous energy swirling in the pit of Louis’ stomach, but it’s getting a bit ridiculous, even by drunk standards. What is he even doing?  
  
“Well, you’re safe at home now so at least there’s that. Try to get some rest, have some water...”  
Louis shakes his head with a grin, which Harry returns.  
“Yes, have water. Hydration is key.”  
“Key. Door.” Louis points to the 78 again to highlight the brilliant observation he’s just made.  
“I insist. It’s an _open-shut case._ ”  
“Haha… no…”  
  
When Harry lets go he lets go gently, but the change in body heat is so intense that Louis struggles to keep his balance, feels such a loss that he can’t help but panic a little.  
“Wait! Do you… Pen?”  
Harry looks puzzled, but digs around his pockets to produce a black biro anyway. Louis snatches his left arm and, generating the last traces of concentration he’s got left, scrawls down what is hopefully his phone number in the spaces that aren’t already coloured in. Weird. He’s probably stabbed at least four of the digits into Harry’s skin but Harry smiles nonetheless, thanks him, and touches his shoulder for the last time.

After clawing his way into the apartment, Louis falls asleep on the sofa, where he can still smell him on his clothes. New coats and something else he doesn’t know yet.  
  
He sleeps better than he has in months, still wearing his shoes.

 


	2. 2a. Allegretto

The morning after is made up of nothing but drumming pain as the merciless rhythm from the night before reverberates within the confines of Louis' skull, a truly evil song for what is already setting out to be a long day of regret. Not only can he can taste, with disturbing accuracy, the corpse of every drink all too willingly slipped down his throat, but he feels so dried out that he genuinely thinks he might be dead. These are of course the expected consequences.

Louis buries a groan in one of the pillows strategically placed on the sofa before trying to sit up, though barely lifting his head is enough to send the whole room spinning violently. Any minute now, Niall will call and Louis will once again mouth to the raspy words the boy has called him with too many times before, _"Man, I'm soo hungover..."_  

In an attempt to feel just slightly more alive, Louis stumbles into the bathroom and strips, careful to avoid his reflection in the mirror. Once in the shower he sets the water just below burning temperature, scrubbing at his skin like he might discover a better version of himself underneath the first couple layers. A version that doesn’t get piss drunk after months of sobriety and on an empty stomach. Bright idea, that. _What a fucking idiot._ About halfway through rinsing his hair (and with the door wide open) he manages to hear his voicemail go off in the kitchen. Naturally, he prepares to match Niall’s slurred greeting. Except it's not Niall calling.

Louis turns off the water and inches his neck past the shower curtain to listen to the sound, only to hear fumbling, like the owner hasn't realised they've called. Just as he decides it's a misdial and goes to turn the water back on the slowest, deepest voice falls like an epiphany over the apartment.  


_"Heellooo?"_  


There's a moment of silence where the panic sets in alongside a necessary reel of questions. What even happened last night? Did he invite someone over? Was there protection? Who topped?  


_"Sorry um, hi, its Harry, I don't know if you remember, we um, we met in the toilet?"_  


He grabs a towel and jumps out of the shower, dries his hair while trying to assemble some kind of timeline after they left for the club. He doesn't recall anything pretty.  


_"I um, I drove you home, you were, you were very drunk so I, I'm just checking up? That you're okay, IF, if you're okay? Alcohol is like, one of the leading causes of death I'm sure, I think, I mean sorry if this is really random or you don't remember-"_  


He's too late stopping himself from running over and grabbing the phone with an out of control yelp, a towel hastily wrapped around his body,  
"Hi!”  
A beat passes while Harry is caught off-guard. Louis curses himself for the impulsive interjection. _Why the fuck did he do that?_  
“--Oh! Hi! Louis?”  
Guess it wasn’t that bad. He continues.  
“Yeah, Harry, is it? Sorry mate, I was in the shower."  


_"Oh, oh okay, hi, how are you feeling?"_  


Louis can't help but frown at the stranger's concern, still not entirely sure who he’s talking to. He finds himself answering blindly all the same.  
"I'm uhh, bit rubbish actually? _Well_ hungover, think you're right about the drinking but uhh... I'm not gonna lie... _Harry_.... Don't remember much of last night…"  
  
  
Harry must’ve had this prepared, because the stammering stops and he speaks in a comparably calmer tone.  


_"Well, we just bumped into each other, then I took you home. You tried to give me your number but it looked more like an abstract art piece than digits, so I asked Liam for it because I really was worried. It's quite funny, because we were actually supposed to meet yesterday. He was going to introduce you but you beat him to it I guess!"_  
He recalls almost vomiting on someone’s shoes, something about a witch, and then a very soft coat. Maybe Zayn’s? Nothing about coming home, or giving his number, since that’s usually not the way it goes. He laughs in faux-relief anyway.  
  
"Ohhhh, Harry, that Harry… Yeah, yeah, thanks man, was nice of you..." he stops, wincing at the awkward possibility that comes into his head then, “I didn’t like, jump you, or anything?”  
_“Oh, no, I mean...”_ he pauses, like he has to think it through, _“No. All good.”_  
He wishes he could be relieved, but it sounds a bit too favourable.  
“Cool. Sorry if that sounds weird, safer to check.”  
_“Course, no, I get it. I dropped off your boyfriend too, if you’re worried.”_  
  
  
_Um._  
  
  
“My… what?”  
_“Boyfriend? Think his name was Zayn, Zee something? Leather jacket, had like, a quiff? Bit pouty? I’m running out of descriptors…”_  
Imagine _that!_  
“Oh my god, no, yeah, that’s,” Louis snorts at the notion, “Ha, that’s not my boyfriend.”  
The effect is immediate, whatever coolness Harry had collected thrown right back to the wind, _“Oh, sorry! Thought you were, my bad--”_  
He stops him before he can start stuttering again; it sounds all wrong in his head that way, grating, like he’s taking steps back.  
“No, um, gay as they come. Zayn’s just my friend though.”  
_“Sorry, you seemed really close, I shouldn’t have assumed...”_  
“Could’ve assumed worse. That’s funny though, he’d love that. Thinks he looks desperate and mopey these days.”  
  
  
He recalls Zayn asking whether his email replies sounded sad in the fresh days of the split. It took a hell of a lot of convincing for him to let it go and even that involved having Niall check each one through for a month.  
  
  
_“Just thought he was a bit moody, definitely not desperate, or even looking. Was convinced there were like, promise rings involved, that kind of level.”_  
Louis winces at the implication, “Gross. What a bad first impression...”  
_“Not at all! You were very…”_  
There’s a long pause as Harry thinks, and each passing second Louis wants to smash the phone down and throw himself out of a window. He finally gives up a timid, but frank,  
  
“Drunk.”  
Louis does breath a sigh of relief this time.  
“Again, could’ve said worse. I appreciate your candor.”  


He knows how he gets when he goes drinking, or at least what people have told him. Used to be notorious for leaving without telling anybody, taking a bus to the last stop just to see where it goes, or the alternate, hooking up with someone in the bathroom and then going back out to find someone else until a friend would have to drag him out before the bouncers did. It’s surprising he hadn’t done much worse last night, miraculously avoiding setting a much darker impression than just ‘drunk’.  


_"Speaking of, um, first impressions,"_ Harry sucks in a breath as if he's gathering the confidence to ask, _"since we didn't really get a chance to talk, we could meet up? Just ‘cause, Liam is my friend, and he is your friend too, I mean, he's a mutual friend, and so, I'd like to meet you, like, you seem really nice and... If you'd like, of course, I wouldn't want to pressure you and it's cool if not--"_

"Oh no it's--"

_"--no?"_

"No, I mean, yes, I mean," Louis groans against the pounding of his head, "Yes, we should meet, properly, without the heavy intoxication and sweaty people." It's like his mouth doesn't even work. “Can’t have my reputation tarnished with this promise ring nonsense… Zayn might get too excited...”

Thankfully he laughs at that, and it's such a _good_ sound that Louis can't help but smile too. There's no other way to describe it other than completely and utterly fulfilling.

 _"That's great! Because I just moved to London like last week? And I don't know anyone here so it'd be really cool if we met..."_  
"Oh sure, sure, yeah,"  
_"Unless my rambling has already scared you off, that tends to happen with new people, I swear I'm more relaxed in person, just, not very good at phone calls--"_  
"Hey, don't sweat it mate," he tries a joke, "I have that effect on people,"

Harry barks out another laugh, too loud, _"yeah, Liam said you'd be like that..."_  


It dawns on him how remarkably easy it is to talk to this man, who is essentially a total stranger. Compared to the stilted and grating exchanges between family and friends (for whom it quite literally is limited to an exchange of pre-recorded phrases along the lines of "I'm fine" and "I'm just tired"), it's such a welcome release of tension to be able to verbalise thoughts as they surface. So much so that he realises the company has actually lifted his spirits... and yet he can barely remember what this man looks like.

 _“We could do lunch? Or, I don’t know, what time are you free?”_   
  
Except, he’s talked himself into an engagement now, blind-sighted, and the light banter he’s been enjoying has transgressed into real life territory. This is far from ideal.   
  
“I’ll have to check, to be honest, not sure of my schedule yet.”   
"Well I'm actually free most days this week, Wednesday, Friday would be good?" Harry offers, obviously brimming with nervous energy.

"Yeah, yeah, Friday looks... good," Louis glances at the calendar that Zayn bought him on the wall opposite, still stuck on November. _Does it bollocks..._  
_"Great well, let me know? You remember what I look like right? I don't want to scare you when we meet..."_  
"Vaguely," he says, knowing full well that he’s going to have to find him through Liam’s social media.  
_"I'll make sure to do my makeup then!"_

Chuckling a bit, Louis leans against the counter, "I look forward to it. Goodbye Harry.”  
“See you Friday!”  


Yeah. Great.  


_Fucking idiot._

 

***

 

"Man, I'm soo hungover..." Niall groans a little over two hours later, having dragged himself over to Louis' to whine in person, currently folded into the couch with hands splayed over his face, shielding it from the rays of daylight as if the blinds weren’t sufficient.  
  
Louis finds out that he, along with Liam, were the last ones standing after the rest of the group gradually dissipated over the course of the night. By late 4 they got kicked out, and even managed to run for the first train at 5:02, which was a fantastic success before they mistakenly got off two stops before they should have. He hasn't seen Liam, but if Niall is anything to go by they brought a whole new meaning to 'shitfaced',  
  
"How did you get home anyway?”

"I didn’t! Zayn recovers from this shit too quick, you think I want to get yelled at about last night right now? I crashed at Liam’s, which we got to by the good of God's grace.”  
“Oh right, did a star appear in the sky to guide you?”  
“A guardian old lady in Tesco's bought us paracetamol, so something divine was definitely involved. Not as good as a lottery ticket, but, a gift from the universe nonetheless. Then I think Liam stayed to carry her shopping or I just left him there, either way..."

 

He can’t say it sounds particularly divine, but he doesn’t question it, just sips his water in silence, certain that Niall’s just going to slump back into the sofa. Except, he feels the eyes on him. That can’t be good. He lowers his glass with newfound dread.

"He asked how you were doing, by the way," Niall adds, playing casual, badly, "Said you should call him, catch up or something."

Louis deflects. "How do you even remember that? I thought you were piss drunk..."

"Okay first of all, I was at most mildly woozy. And he said that before, so the memory was saved pre-woozy state.”

 

 _As if they don’t have anything better to talk about…_ Seeing and drinking in Liam’s general company is one thing, but ‘catching up’ is quite another. ‘Catching up’ means talking, and talking to Liam involves facing up to the underlying causes of why they stopped talking in the first place, regardless of best friend loyalty, or whatever shit Louis makes himself believe is the real reason. Zayn's insisted (multiple times) that it shouldn't be a cause for embarrassment and yet that's all it ever is, what with everyone being so bloody concerned all the time. _As if they don't talk about it enough already..._

He tries to change the subject.

 

"So Liam's new girlfriend huh?"

"Promise you'll call?"

It's so unlike Niall to get morose like this, usually the lovable lighthearted joker lifting everyone's spirits. Now he's clumsily tentative, with brows furrowed in determination to stay on topic; a difficult task against Louis' impeccable talent for dodging problems.

"Liam's new girlfriend? Don't think either of us would like that very much..."

"Liam. Or anyone." a shaky laugh from Louis apparently reinforces Niall's will to persist, "For real, mate, listen to me."

That's the last thing he wants to do. He wonders when he grew so accustomed to lying through his teeth, when he used to hate it so much.  
“’M listening.”

"Talking is supposed to help, y'know? And it's okay getting help mate, when you need it, it's okay to reach out, like… Sometimes we don’t get it, but we’re all on your side, yeah?"

 

Dodging isn't gonna work this time, Louis knows, so he forces himself to meet Niall's eyes and declares, in the most sincere tone he can manage, "I know, Ni. Thanks"

Apparently it’s satisfactory.  
"Okay."  
Niall claps him on the back. The moment is over.

 

"Hold up, how did _you_ get home anyway?"

 

This branch of conversation was expected. If it hadn't been for the concern detour it would've probably come up much earlier. Louis clears his throat and wanders over to the kitchen to refill his glass with water. Niall follows with further questions.

 

"Did you get laid? Old days indeed! Who topped?"

Of course.

"I don't kiss and tell," Louis retorts, flicking his wrist as if to scold him for being so improper. Niall rolls his eyes so hard they might just pop out and skid across the floor.

"But you fuck and tell. C'mon man, you cannot keep this from me, my life depends on this information."

"Does it? How have you survived this long then?"

"Just because your sex life is dead in the water doesn't mean that's true for everyone else... for example, Liam--"

"Okay, thanks Niall, I'll pass on the details."

 

He's basically cornered now, Niall's torso hanging over the counter, a cocked grin propped up by his arms like a fairytale maiden at her window.

"Sooo..."

"Nothing happened."

An exaggerated groan fills the room as he twists back dramatically, collapsing on the sofa with a dull thump. Louis pats his head sympathetically on his way back to his seat.

"Why must you disappoint? I had such high hopes, Louis. Such high hopes… Bet it was that fucking jumper..."

Louis shrugs. Niall jolts back up with a hopeful glint.  
"But there was someone? That _nothing_ happened with..."

“Yeah, me, myself and I.”  
“My head is _pounding,_ mate, have mercy on my thirsty soul please...”  
That reminds Louis of something, maybe Harry’s rambly phone call. It makes him snort nonetheless.  
“You should have some water.”  
  
He finally gives in though, because Niall looks absolutely destitute and a part of Louis is craving at least some kind of discussion on the topic, however much he knows it’s really, really stupid, and he still doesn’t know how he managed to walk into a meet-up like he’s got the time, energy or desire for any more friends. Niall may be a valuable source of information, after all.

"One of Liam's mates, just drove me home. It was nothing."  
Niall does not share this sentiment.  
"What does he look like? What did he say? Did he purposefully hit on you or was it like, unaddressed sexual tension you could cut with a knife?"  
All stellar questions. Yet admitting how drunk he got in front of half of the Friendly Concern Committee may not be the wisest choice, so Louis deflects once again.

"Jesus, Ni, you really need to find someone else to get gossip from..."

"You’re the best I can get right now!"  
He sucks in a breath to feign offence, placing a hand to his chest.  
“Cheers, mate. Makes me feel real special.”  
“More about mysterious Liam’s friend and how _he_ made you feel special, please. You can be salty later.”

 

Thinking back now he’s still decently foggy. There was definitely a bar stool and a Harry, and lots and lots of drinks, but not in that order. Someone must’ve switched him over to water, because he remembers walking back to see Liam and co, really warm, and then that’s when Harry must’ve driven him home. Which, all things considered, is a relatively clear outline of the night. Reliable Harry details, however, remain up for debate.  
  
“I don’t remember that much about _him_. He drove me and Zayn home and then called to check up on me,” he squints, taking another sip, “Also, I might’ve vomited on slash near his shoes, still not sure if that was him or someone else...”  
“Classy mate, nice one. Was he hot?”  
“Thought you’d have seen him, we went to the table before we left… Liam was there, we picked up Zayn…”  
Niall groans as if him not being there was equivalent to missing a prime career opportunity, “Would’ve been with Sophia by then... She got a bit teary so I had to give her a rousing speech in the bathroom.”  
Louis raises an eyebrow.  
“They didn’t kick you out?”  
“I was one of them in spirit. I think they just thought we were a lesbian couple having a tiff.”  
“You do look a bit like Ellen…”  
“Ellen looks a bit like _me_. More importantly, what’s your mystery man look like?”  
  
He’s since remembered dimples and hair, but that doesn’t particularly help, so he mocks Niall’s excited tone.  
“It’s a _mystery_.”  
“You get his name?”  
“Harry... something…”  
Niall lets his jaw drop open, either playing up some undisclosed shock or just comically emotive upon recognition.  
  
“ _Harry_ ? I _cannot_ believe I didn’t witness this…”  
“What?”

“Harry’s an enigma. They say he makes straight men fall in love with him just by looking over his shoulder. People want to give him their children, like how people get athletes to kiss their babies, fuck knows why... Even stepping into his car? That’s currency.”  
Louis snorts, “You’re so full of shit.”  
“Yeah,” he grins with utter glee, finally sitting back into a more relaxed posture, “But he is fucking hot though. We met at the Payne’s New Years party like a year ago, you must’ve missed it for work. They’re like, family friends or something. You really can’t remember what he looks like?”  
“ _Obviously_ not.”  
That earns him a tusk, Niall taking out his phone to scroll through his photo gallery. Louis preemptively looks away just in case he might be scarred for life, but gives up when Niall starts humming, whatever he’s looking for apparently trickier to find than he thought. He decides to prod Louis to fill up the quiet.  
  
“I cannot _wait_ to see you all double date when Zayn and Liam stop being stupid...”  
“You are actually mental. Do you try to set everyone up like this or just your gay friends?”

“Just my _sad_ friends.”  
Louis wrinkles his nose at the accusation.  
“I’m not sad.”  
Niall rolls his eyes, “Yeah, okay. Last time we believed that it didn’t go so well so, shut up. Here he is!” he squeals, shoving the phone in Louis’ face to display a gritty scene of Liam’s mum chatting to Zayn and Liam, the flash awkwardly bouncing off the glass in Zayn’s hand. Half an arm peeks out from the right side of the screen.  
“...That’s an elbow.”  
“He’s not in any of the other ones, that’s the best I’ve got! Think he takes photos for his job, or something, so everything else is like…” he opens his instagram, looking through his following to tap on another profile, “Shit like this.”  
  
Niall scrolls for him, emphasising an overly black and white theme with various artsy angles someone who knew anything about art would undoubtedly appreciate. Louis shrugs.  
“Cool, I guess? Bit black and white.”  
“You have _zero_ culture,” Niall groans, locking his phone with a definitive click, “I suppose opposites attract...”  
“I said it was cool!”  
“Great, so you’ll think he’s cool too,” he leans in again for a full character synopsis, “Full disclosure, you’ll definitely get that juice-cleanse hipster vibe with him but he’s a really good guy, swear. Like, he could totally tell you what his belt is made of but he wouldn’t make you feel bad about not having seen a vegetable in four months. Makes really shitty jokes from what I remember so, play nice. Also would definitely be up for naming one of your kids Niall Jr...”  
“Yeah, I’ll be sure to bring that up at our date on Friday.”  
He regrets it as soon as he says it, but the way Niall grins and his eyes widen means that there’s absolutely no way to take this back.  
“ _You_ have a _date_ on Friday?”  
  
It really would be nice to think before speaking for once. _Fucking idiot._ He can’t even be sure Niall can hear his clarification over the teasing choir of ‘ooOOooOOOOoooh!’ and other related taunts.  
  
“No. We are meeting on Friday. I got talked into it because he just moved to London and…” He got distracted by the voice? The comfort that came with it? “...something, I don’t remember.”  
“I didn’t hear a word of that. You know what I heard? Denial.”  
“All because I was ‘playing nice’... See where that lands you?”  
“A great place, if you ask me,” he pauses the celebrations, which had graduated to a series of top-half old school dance moves, to give credence to his new lecturing tone, “Don’t do anything stupid and don’t be an asshole and you actually stand a chance of Not ending up alone and crusty.”  
  
That’s one of the last things he’s concerned about. It’ll take a lot of undoing to convince Niall to let it go though.  
“I’m just now going back to work. The last thing I need is to be a part of one of your weird projects.”  
“Weird projects today, but heartwarming best man toast stories tomorrow. I have to think of your future if you won’t…”  
“I don’t know him, Ni.”  
“Um, yet.”  
“I beg you, drop it. I’m seeing him briefly so that if I ever have to see him _again_ he won’t immediately associate me with being a drunk prat.”  
“Can’t have been that much of a prat for him to call you up after... Bet you didn’t even vomit on _his_ shoes!”  
“ _Ni_.”  
“Fine, if you say so. But I want date details as soon as they occur.”

 

Louis sighs, taking another sip of water. The hangover hasn't even started to subside, still shaking like tremors somewhere at the front of his skull. He looks out of the window, the pavement just starting to get hit by the rain.

 

"Sure. Not like I've got more important things to worry about..."

 


	3. 2b. Andante

It's not the first time he's had this dream.   
  
He's dressed in powder blue tights, viridescent jacket top so dark it may as well be black. It's cut in a gold-trimmed V neck, exposing a white shirt underneath. He embodies power, control, will. To carry, complement, support the danseuse throughout the performance. He's a prince.   
  
But he's across the room too, unlike anything you'd ever see in a traditional ballet, where a man dancing en pointe is already considered uncommon, unusual, unnecessary. It's a profitable skill, surely, but one reserved to convey etherealness, an extraordinary presentation of the female form at its ideal. Such a demand is hardly made of the male counterpart.    
  
The first incarnation opens the scene, steps reminiscent of Giselle's Act II but out of place, out of order, and Louis tries to make it right but he can't seem to execute the correct routine the same way he remembers it. Every misstep shoots up through his legs like he's skipping on glass shards, a clumsily initiated assemblé granting a throbbing tightness in the arch of his right foot.   
  
Across the room, the second incarnation dances what should be The Female Part, but it's still him, clad in a detailed silk tunic and pointe shoes, following a made up sequence, whim steps, bright, lively motion performed with what seems like reckless abandon. This incarnation is flawless, unreal, makes every right step every right way, moving exclusively of its own accord.   
  
He's not sure when it happened but he realises everything is overwhelmingly silent, each contact with the floor or the air unreported, like a secret everyone else is in on. Distracted by this absence he's too late realising the second incarnation has launched into a grand jeté, left leg pushing off the floor through to the ball of the foot to achieve the maximum amount of power, the legs extended in the front and back into a split.   
  
But then something goes wrong because he doesn't land, he falls, and he keeps falling somewhere into oblivion where there is no distinction between right, left, centre stage, no distinction even between the ground and the air, and he's not flawless anymore, he's real, and his arms snap out of delicate, concentrated motion into forcible reaction, splayed out ready to break the inevitable fall but it doesn't come, doesn't come, doesn't---   
  
**   
  
His heartbeat is somewhere up his throat when he jolts awake, but he doesn't feel the rawness of it like he used to. Mechanic, monotonal in his motions, Louis drops his feet to the side of the bed, wiping the beads of sweat off his forehead with the back of a trembling hand. He wouldn't be able to tell he was awake lest for the fact that he can hear again, the dripping of the kitchen tap, the dull rumble of the few cars driving past, sough of the barren branches outside his window.   
  
Louis pads over to the sink, fills a glass with cold water. He recognises the chill through the glass as he brings it to his lips and takes a sip. He puts the glass on the counter and acknowledges the sound it makes upon contact.    
  
It's not the first time he's had this dream.    
  
He slips back into bed.    
  
It's not the last.


	4. 2c. Vivace

4am mornings are probably the best thing there is, Louis thinks, even though right now his whole body is buzzing with apprehension. His first day back. He had been preparing for it the second he physically could, and had it not been for everyone else’s policing of what he was allowed to do and when, he would’ve come back to work the very next day. Instead, almost five months later, he’s got his foot in the door to return to the Royal Ballet, and he still doesn’t know how he managed it. He doesn’t deserve it, he knows, so he has to give it all back twofold, make sure whoever let him come back doesn’t regret their decision.  
  
He has to do so much better.  
  
Everything is obnoxiously loud on the staircase, his duffle bag swinging into the railings as he takes two steps at a time, spinning on his heels on the cusp of each of the seven floors. Might as well be asking for a twisted ankle, but he’s got too much pent up anxiety and longing to restrain himself. At least this, at least today, he can allow.

The weather is notably unforgiving for April, cold crawling into every crack and crevice of skin Louis has foolishly left exposed. He's always cold, he finds, and adding extra layers never quite helps, even now wearing two pairs of everything and a green hoodie at least two sizes too big, so he speed-walks to the underground, both to try to escape the cold and to release some of that bottled nervous energy. Arriving on the platform 12 minutes before the first train is due, he huddles by one of the pillars and unlocks his phone to the series of texts Zayn and Niall had sent the night before, wilfully ignored in favour of a longer preparatory workout,

 

_good luck for tomorrow, remember it's not for long, you'll bounce back._

**_How can I still be awake at this time! Sittin watchin The music channels like a weirdo_ **

**_I forgot ! fingers, arms , legs , eyes are all crossed for tomorrow!_ **

_can you believe niall forgot? what an ass._      

**If zayn is talking shit , kindly remind him Who hid his weed in uni when his sisters came to visit**

 

By the time Louis taps out some _thank you_ 's the first train has pulled in, the underside mechanics thrumming in the otherwise quiet station. He props himself up on one of the quilted rests everyone uses as seats at the front of the carriage, cradling his bag on his lap. His feet dangle, so he decides to lean against it instead. The train pulls away from the station.

 

The journey is only a couple of minutes but it feels like an hour, each station an increasingly slower drag the closer they get to the final destination, lulling him into a false sense of calm until the occasional clashing shutter shoots up Louis' spine as if personally trying to shake him. He takes the time to think back to his last work day, and all the events that ensued, wondering if everyone’s minds will, upon seeing him, collectively flash to the precise moment he stumbled and just couldn’t hold on to his scene partner anymore. It was humiliating enough without yet becoming his legacy, and the fact that it could very well become it, if he falls short again, might have deterred him from coming back if he didn’t know exactly how much he needs ballet to survive.  
  
He runs his eyes over the reflective black of the glass panels where his distorted reflection stares back, harsh scruff and dead eyes. Maybe he should’ve slept more after all.

 

**My lovely boy! Best of luck to you on your first day back! Proud mum today ❤️**

 

The text comes up as soon as he swipes his Oyster card on the reader but he doesn't open it to reply, the contact name enough for that familiar guilt to settle in and start gnawing at his skin. Zayn must have told her. Louis doesn't talk to Jay as much as he used to, as much as he should, but he hates lying to her most of all. Since that’s the only way they’d be able to talk properly again, he finds himself stalling for more and more time, lets Zayn do the active part.  
  
To think they used to be so close. To think he was in his prime. Maybe he should stop thinking altogether.

 

Dawn is only beginning to break when he pushes the stage door open, where he signs himself in with a stiff hold, willing muscle memory to disguise the fact that he has to concentrate on the letters. He was always the first name on the list, overachiever and that, would show up at the same time every day even after the worst of nights. The other dancers would ask how he did it, and he would laugh, always the proverbial life of the party, until, suddenly, he wasn't.  
  
But the fall of Louis Tomlinson is an old story, and a usually dull one. People readily assumed gathering all the solos grew his ego, that he thought he was too good to spend time with anyone but himself, so the last couple months before The Incident were pretty lonely ones. He was too tired to mind by then anyway.

 

The main studio is the only one large enough to fit the entire cast, and remains in use for that reason alone. He can't look up without feeling at least mildly nauseous with the high ceiling, some dark abyss defined only by the piled layers of lighting equipment and the ventilatory system. The floor isn't entirely level either, a very subtle but characteristic dip towards the right hand side of the room. The glossy varnish once coating the floor visibly eroded in unappealing patches, just as the walls no longer resemble the stark white paint they had been slathered with originally. Three sets of barres span a third of the room (with a fourth set forming a horseshoe at the back) while the remaining section is left open as the main dancing space.

 

Louis flicks on the lights. The room whirs alive.

 

He takes just under 25 minutes stretching the muscles in his legs first, taking his time to go through the motions like he's making amends with an old friend. By the time his hand is on the barre other dancers start showing up, most of the corps and one of the demi-soloists, arm draped over an effortlessly glamorous Eleanor, who regards him curiously but doesn’t approach him. Some dancers flat out ignore his presence while others, those who he could still call his friends if he wanted to, sneak him a sympathetic smile or a demure wave. He doesn't return the gesture.

 

When he comes up from the port de bras on fifth position the isolatory bubble wanes, and he finds himself face to face with the artistic director.

 

"Louis, good to see you back."

Her tone is matter-of-fact, unnervingly so, but it's nothing new. On his first day Louis saw one of the dancers break down during their critique, no one in the room even remotely fazed at the hysterical manner in which they stormed out; now having worked under Madame, it's far from surprising. She walks accompanied by a sleek black cane when leaving or entering the studio, but never during professional hours. No one calls her anything but Madame, and most of the corps doesn't even know her name.

 

Louis is about to pause his warm up when she holds up a palm, face stoic as ever.

"Don't let me interrupt you."

 

It sounds like a backhanded slap in the face and the flush on Louis' cheeks feels like the aftermath. Nevertheless, he goes on relevé, temporarily taller on his toes as he levels his gaze to that of a subordinate.

 

"As you know, we've had to demote you to the corps for the time being, just while you settle back in. You’ll be joining us as an understudy for the latter half run of Balanchine’s Jewels."

Louis nods, proceeding to coupé, then possé, placing his leg on the barre. He's determined to maintain eye contact, even though her gaze is piercing to say the least.

 

"We're obviously very keen to keep you in the cast, which I hope you appreciate. I understand some people may not be able to deal with the demands this industry has..."

Coarse salt in an already poorly healing wound. Louis keeps his back bent expertly.

"... But I trust you won’t want to disappoint us again. You’ll be expected to catch up with the show to the same standards as everyone else, as well as later assisting Alberto with the corps in class."

"Yes, Madame."

She doesn’t react, voice remaining so monotonous she might as well be reading lines. His eyes follow the watch strapped to her bony wrist as she checks it, a gift from her former supervisor.

"I have back-to-back meetings today so I'll leave you to warm-up," she drops her arm back to the side, and he feels like he sees it click into place, "If you have any questions about the renewal of your contract you can leave a message."

She turns on her heel, and just as he dares to think that maybe he's off the hook for now she turns her head and, without even a twitch of the hand informs him,

 

"You're not pointing your foot enough."

 

**

 

The Jewels rehearsal passes without incident. His timetable directs him to the Emeralds rehearsal, in which he shadows a dancer he hasn’t met before and consequently avoids any prying or questions during the brief breaks for comments and critique.  
  
“You’re new?” he asks at one point, somewhat unsettled by Louis’ deathly quiet observation.  
“Sort of.”  
  
They only speak again when he offers to switch, which Louis promptly declines upon realising how tense his body gets at the suggestion. Instead he stays a pace away, watching closely, moving his feet to fit the blocking in time. Here is where he spots Danielle on the other side of the room, and thanks any and all deities there may be that he’s not holding anyone up right then.  
  
For this reason he steers clear of the main studios over lunch, dropping by the costume department to both say hello and provide measurements in case he does need to understudy. He’s averse to both, but he’s gotten back down to his baseline numbers at the beginning of a season, and he needs the friendly facade so that any fluctuations aren’t drawn up as a cause for concern. That and, anything that stalls the inevitable conversation with Danielle and keeps him moving through break, unnoticed, is a good enough plan of action.

  
However, “Tomlinson!” is barked at him before he even passes the threshold, followed by a, “Long time no see, love!” as he’s enveloped in a tight hug.  
  
Sarah from the costume department isn’t exactly someone he’d call a friend (on the simple basis that she knows too much), but she has always been remarkably social with everyone in the cast. By her reasoning, they might as well be lifelong pals.  
  
“Hi,” he replies weakly, the rushing panic that comes with such a close embrace making him feel like his chest is going to collapse. It doesn't. Sarah lets go and takes his hand, leading him to the back where rows of costumes line half of the room, each individual’s ornate glory blurring together from ballet to ballet. She stops at the stand labelled ‘bJ:E/R/D’, and steps up on a stool with Louis’ hand still in hers for balance. Her voice is muffled as she searches for something in one of the drawers, but still characteristically bell-like.  
  
“Heard you’d be coming back, you’re doing Jewels?”  
“Understudy,” he mutters, careful not to sound bitter.  
“All three?”  
“Emeralds and Diamonds.”

“Lovely!”  
  
She jumps down with a dull thud, and Louis does the same upon impact.  
  
“Relax! Jumpy…” she hands him six pairs of ballet shoes in his size, three white and three green, “Got these from Jane so you’d have to come visit me. How you been, love?”  
“Would’ve come anyway, measurements…”  
“Course! Let’s get that done, then…”

Louis doesn’t have time to breathe before her tape measure is held up flat from shoulder to shoulder, then around his chest, waist, only thinks to inhale again while she’s noting down the numbers in pencil.

  
“Missed a couple great shows, love. Would’ve loved to see you do Camélias, as the... Armand, it would have been.”  
“Maybe next time.”  
“Oh no doubt. And we missed you for Sylvia, of course.”  
His blood pressure spikes at the mention, “Understudy was fine?”  
“Oh sure, fine. Went down well, in the end. Danielle said she would’ve preferred you though.”  
  
He can’t see why…  
  
She begins to sort through the Diamonds section of the rack, sifting through identical white shirts, occasionally taking one out to hang over her other arm.  
“We were all so worried about you, her especially. Never expected you to be off for so long...”  
“Complications,” he answers, balanced and casual. Sarah frowns.  
“Nothing serious, I hope?”  
“Not at all.”  
“I suppose they would’ve considered that, bringing you back. Glad they made the right decision.”  
  
Under the circumstances, probably not. He smiles tightly to suppress that particular source of guilt from showing on his face as she hands him one of the shirts.  
  
“This’ll be the one, I think.”

 

**  
  
Where the stress-filled journey to the studio felt like hours that wouldn't budge, and time had generally levelled out for the first rehearsal, the second flies by in a matter of mere minutes, slipping through fingers the way smoke does. Gone. No one questions Louis' return, although a couple more curious glances scorch holes in the back of his head, making his skin crawl and burn like cold hands under boiling water.  
  
He keeps his head down. And he sure as hell points his feet enough when necessary.

The first cast are all in, but he wouldn’t have expected to be called to understudy immediately anyway, so he finds some place backstage to sit and watch all the entrances and exits and everything in between, leaving to work on some of the trickier footwork during Rubies, then coming back for Diamonds. He leaves around curtain call to have some privacy in the bathroom and then, once the leaving laughing chatter from outside dies down, he heads to the locker room, hastily tapping out an update for Niall and Zayn as he channels his whole body weight to push the door open.

**_Day was good , details later . Heading home now ._ **

He's just started packing his bag when he hears the familiar jeering voice of Thomas Parker.

"Look who's back..."

He should say the newly promoted Thomas Parker, since his time off surely advanced the ‘always a first soloist never the principal’ up through the ranks. Knowing Thomas, he’d be willing to bet he hasn’t stopped openly sneering over the fact that it was Louis' position as principal he filled, perpetuating the current phenomenon where Louis feels like he’s got a target on him that’s got the whole company watching him, entranced. 

  
"You had a nice holiday? Relaxing?"  
  
The worst part is that he looks like every role they'd ask of a principal, much more than slight and short Louis. 5"10, with a jugged profile, a square jaw, that one vein some men get in their neck that's supposed to signify physical prowess or something. It's so pronounced it looks like he's going to have a stroke at any moment. Maybe he will, and then Louis won’t have to deal with this right now. Again. Ever.

“Because it was _great_ not having to see you here...”

He'd joined the company a year before Louis, and off the bat would drop wayward comments about Louis' training, his technique, and indeed, the fact the company had promoted him to lead roles as fast as they did. From what little Louis let slip about Thomas and the related conflict to Niall and Zayn, the theories varied from deep-rooted jealousy to unrequited lust, and the consequent internal conflict a result of threatened masculinity. Louis just thinks he’s a cunt.  
  
“You sure? Sounds like you missed me.”

The comment goes amiss, though Louis is not surprised. Thomas may have been promoted but he’s no quicker on his feet, resorting to the same, recycled disses.

"Guess all the actual _working_ got boring for you, not having everything handed to you all the time..."

"I don't have time for this."

He pauses as if to savour the moment, chuckles faintly at Louis' nonchalant tone.

"We both know you shouldn't be here."

Louis doesn't respond, just continues to pack his belongings.

"No one’s been able to figure out how you managed to crawl back, though, you know? Been a real puzzle, how you did it..."

He folds his towel, packs his shoes.

"Not how, exactly, but who. I’d love to know. Who did Tomlinson have to screw to weasel himself back into the company..."

He swings the bag over his shoulder, makes to storm out at the same time as Thomas blocks the door with his broad frame, right arm cutting Louis off so that he's cornered.

"Of course," a thin-lipped smirk dominates his face now, eyes so intense they might very well sear through flesh, "Maybe it would take less time to name anyone you _haven’t_ screwed to get here..."

Louis just stares right back, doing everything in his power to appear apathetic.

Thomas throws a quick look over his shoulder, momentarily cautious of potential repercussions. Deciding the coast is clear he steps in, hot breath on the side of Louis' face in a falsely sympathetic tone,

"You know, they say it gets better if you come clean," his right arm has dropped now, the hand briefly hovering over Louis' neck, "That guilt and shame… That can _really_ eat you up..."

The trap is made of burning body heat but all Louis feels is cold, cold, cold...

 

"Thomas, you ready?"  
  
Thomas stills, turning his head to face the voice down the hall, followed by subtle footsteps and the fumbling noises of carrying too many things at once. The right arm blockade drops, and Louis, with his heart all the way up his throat, would be fully prepared to bound out of the building and run all the way home, if it weren’t for the fact the voice meets the face and meets them.

 

“Louis!” Danielle gasps, indeed swamped with two massive bags over what is otherwise a pretty dressy outfit, hair caught under the straps of the one that must be Thomas’. “I didn’t expect to see _you_ here! How are you?”  
Of course his brain blanks completely, unequipped for any kind of meaningful social interaction.  
“I’m… back.”  
“I’ll wait outside.” Thomas tells her, sounding mildly irritated, and departs with a final grunt of, “Tomlinson.”  
  
This is definitely the worse of two evils. She continues undeterred.  
  
“Are you in Jewels? I _knew_ I saw you in rehearsals!”  
“Yeah.”  
“So am I! You get any solos yet?”  
“No.” _Not for a while._  
“Oh, well, you’ll work it out,” she readjusts the bag on one of her shoulders, “Hey, you want to join us for a late dinner? Thomas is taking me out to this new Italian restaurant, you could tag along, catch-up?”  
_Now that sounds like it’s own circle of hell._  
“I think I’m just going to head home…”  
“Oh, sure. We should definitely catch up though. Crazy that you’re back, I can’t believe it’s been so long!”  
  
She smiles so brightly at him he feels himself rotting from the inside; he doesn’t deserve this, any of this, but especially not this, and this single moment holds such weight that it feels, simultaneously, like it lasts half a second and a full day.  
  
“Babe! Hurry up!”  
  
Danielle nods towards the summons apologetically, then last minute decides to set down one arm’s bag to give Louis a quick half-hug, leaving him an imprint of the smell of hairspray and stage makeup as she picks up the bag again, waves goodbye, and makes to leave.  
  
_See you tomorrow,_  she says, with full certainty that she will. And she leaves, down the corridor through to stage door and way past the point where Louis could have stopped her and said something in way of an apology.  
  
And he lets her go.  


**

  
Walking out into a night as cold as the morning feels cyclical. He doesn’t buzz anymore, now pent-up with all of the things that sit heavy and damning (like dread, guilt), and not high and whirring (like that morning’s anxiety), but the apprehension is the same.

He’s numb, walking out with heavy steps. The priority of getting home seems lost now, some foreign plan he doesn’t remember making and couldn’t make sense of if asked. Instead he finds himself wandering back through Covent Garden, watching closed shops and stalls like they might move if he blinks.  
  
Most of all, he’s heavy. Weighed down with all of the lies and conversations and looks, everyone looking him deep into the ground, thinking, and talking, and asking, worrying, laughing, smiling, watching him, watching if he’ll do the same.  
But no one’s watching him now.  
  
With what strength he can muster he shifts the door to a corner shop, still white light open, wincing at the cheerful bell that alerts the owner of his presence.

 

"You alright there, son?"

"’M good, thanks."

 

He buys a pack of cigarettes for the first time in five months.

 


	5. 3. Moderato

He's late.

Everything was well and good up until Zayn's weekly phone call, a fresh development in the newborn art of Checking Up on Louis. Of course it wasn't much like the intense interrogation one would expect, but rather a carefully tailored ‘conversation’, specifically formulated to prod at all the possible information Louis might be hiding. Knowing Zayn, he probably committed a rough draft to paper before even dialing the number. 

 

-

So it starts off with the You Will Not Believe What Happened To Me Today move, leading face first into the trials and tribulations of an artist working in a tattoo studio. It'd be a good anecdote too, something about a guy with a snake tattoo on his dick, all if it wasn't for the fact that Louis could sense what was coming, air thick and weighted with ulterior motives.

Very blasé, Zayn follows with a light, How About You. At this point he'd been on speaker phone for a full 6 minutes, Louis absentmindedly sewing elastic into a new pair of ballet shoes on the other side. A testy "hello?" revives him, apparently mesmerised, and he accidentally pricks his thumb on the needle with a hiss.

"You sound tense mate, you alright?"

He hadn't mentioned the run-in with Thomas, knowing full well what a row that would cause; the last thing he needed is a lecture about what he should do and what he should say when he honestly doesn’t give enough of a fuck about himself  _ or  _ Thomas in order to shut him up. Zayn doesn’t seem to get that, so he’s lost the privilege of updates. Also, Louis is undoubtedly going to get yelled at for smoking again, so what’s the point in aggravating him ahead of time? 

 

"’M fine, why does everybody keep asking that?" he murmurs with just a hint of indignation, making another stitch in time with Zayn’s deep sigh. Good.

"Tell you what..."

Not good. Louis feels the thrush of muted panic.

"Let's go somewhere after work tomorrow, just me and you, do something fun, unwind.”

“’M busy.” 

“There’s no show, I checked. Won’t need you to rehearse, you’re only-- They won’t need the understudies...” 

“You never know.” 

“I’ll buy you a drink. And I promise, won’t ask you a single question."

Louis purses his lips. It’s an obvious ploy, and he should be positively affronted by the promise of alcohol as bait, but the possibility of spending time with normal best friend Zayn, and not controlling surrogate mother Zayn, is tempting to say the least. Now, an evening to speak freely, like he used to be able to do, with no interrogation in sight? Risky. Unlikely. But ultimately tempting. And even if it disappoints, it’ll still help keep up appearances of him being social independently, inch away some of the excuses he knows they’ve got piled up to justify still keeping an eye on him. He lays the shoes on the bed.

“Fine.”

 

-

And now, Zayn is late.

Louis has been pacing the front entrance foyer for about 20 minutes now, time he would've gladly spent rehearsing had he not already changed. Other dancers and staff pass him by, but he’s quite mastered looking closed off and busy to limit the sympathetic pity looks, or looks in general. 20 minutes though, and he’s beginning to grow a little impatient. A lot impatient.

Work had been exhausting. The Emeralds dancer he’d been shadowing had caught wind of Louis’ sudden break from the company and so was decidedly more chatty than before, so much so that by the time they were dismissed from rehearsal, Louis had a wide array of colourful suggestions for where he should stick all his blatant questions next time (which he held back, only barely). He wasn’t needed for Diamonds, so he spent the rest of the day in class with Alberto, one of the ballet masters, and the apprentices, where he decided that if he had to hear the same corrections one more time he would legitimately leave the earth. The constant monologue of doubt soon became sufficiently distracting though, largely recycling the pure conviction that he was put there as a living example of What Not To Do, which peaked when he was finally given the same correction. Absolutely pathetic.

He should be rehearsing. That’s 21 minutes gone now. He stops pacing to twist his neck back and then, chest heavy, strides back to where he came from, away from where he was supposed to meet Zayn and back through the corridors.

_ And what if it is just that? What if after all the months of pushing and pulling either way that's all he's denounced himself to, someone who gets apprentice-level critique? What if all his work is an individual record of failure, a tile in a mosaic of his subsequently nonexistent career? Or what if all he has ever done is kid himself that he could do something like this, that he could make it... _

He walks into the auditorium.

Being on the other side is unnerving, almost, facing the black linoleum he's felt on probably every part of his body, knowing every crevice and cranny backstage from the trick step up to light tech to the slamming door, and being out of reach of it all. The layers of gaff tape, the wafting smell of lost decades you can shake out of the curtains, the carvings and signatures on previously bare walls. He’d like to think it’s his, that it belongs to him in a way, and maybe at one point he thought just that, cocky and stupid. 

 

At best, it’s a loan. He should’ve known without having to give it back. 

 

He wanders through the rows as if he were in a trance, coming up to face the stage with an infantile sense of wonder, of awe, one that’s so specific to this theatre, this stage, that he feels it deserves a word of its own. It’s set up for Jewels, the portable scenery tucked neatly away, and even though it’ll be months before he’ll dance here alone again, right now it is all just for him, just his. He slips his shoes off on the stage steps, padding upstage in his socks, and recalls, with poignant accuracy, a flash reel of every entrance he’s made from here, all folded together into a bursting well of that specific feeling and thinks, with the smell of dust and curtains and woodwork, that this is the only thing that will ever matter.

 

Otherworldly. That's what it feels like. Ethereal.

Something crashes backstage. Louis snaps his head up.

"SORRY! Sorry!"

He wouldn’t have been surprised to find someone from crew, even on a no-show day, but the panicked apologies (and, indeed, the crashing) suggest the culprit may be more out of place here than Louis is. The stranger audibly shuffles past the fallen equipment before bending over to try to lift it up, knocking down something else in the process. Light, panicked cursing murmurs. More aggressively clanging metal. Louis knows that voice.

At the same time as he makes to peer in the left wing, arms carefully wrapped around his chest in an effort to command authority, the someone bursts out with two yelps; one after hooking his foot on a costume rack, the second upon coming face to face with Louis.

He is very tall, is the first thing Louis notes. It is the most obvious thing, the height difference between them faintly comical. In Louis' defence he is clad only in socks, while the man before him stands sheepishly in (heeled) tan boots a good two inches too high. This is followed by long long legs in too-tight black jeans (artfully ripped at the knee) and an open blousy shirt in some ugly garish print, something you'd see on a garage sale couch. By the time he reaches his face he finds the man craning his neck, watching him with a bewildered expression and green green eyes.

 

“Sorry, are you supposed to be he--” 

“Louis?”

  
  


Um.

 

It’s not fair, because he’s caught off-guard, so his initial attempt at sounding as intimidating as possible falters into a weak trail. His mind races to put everything together, figure out where and who and how and,

  
  


Harry. Must be Harry.

  
  


_ Jesus fucking Christ. _

Harry appears to share Louis' alarm, eyes widened as he stutters over a response to the question he’d interrupted. When nothing comes out he runs a lavishly ring-adorned hand through his hair, a mane of curls and ringlets bowed in a widow's peak, and furrows his brows as if to scold himself for it. Louis' throat's gone dry.

"Harry?"

"Yeah!" Harry exhales gratefully, as if he'd been holding his breath ever since he first tripped.

"Sorry, didn't, um, you look... Good."

What is he even saying?

 

But Harry laughs, a melodic sound, tucks a displaced lock of hair behind his ear and attempts a runway spin. It backfires, of course, and he bumps his elbow on the wall extending just enough to curtain the left wing. He rubs his elbow sheepishly, making a decisive step onto the stage and away from anything that isn't welded to the ground. Probably for the best. 

 

“Should probably… not… do that… Thank you! You’re very handsome also.” 

Louis rolls his eyes, still too on edge to cut back or falsify appropriately. Not that he’s massively into rules in general, but when it comes to the company he can’t help but feel territorial, and that’s considerably easier to say. 

 

“Flattery is no ID card. What are you doing here?"

Harry seems to stir, suddenly fluent, "I'm actually gonna be doing some, uh, promotional work, with the company? The meeting, well, more like a late lunch, um, we-- we finished early so I wanted to take a look around..."

"Promotional work?"

"I'm a photographer," he sounds more confident now, but the rambling doesn't stop. "Take pictures of things, and, you know, buildings, and, people, take pictures of people too--"

"Yeah, I get the gist."

_ Harsh,  _ Louis scolds himself.  _ Let him take his time.  _ He follows up with a less abrasive tone. 

 

“Sorry. So you’re, what, taking photos for Jewels?” 

“No the, um, the next one. Just meeting to discuss contracts and… business… stuff…”

Louis raises an eyebrow, “Business stuff?”

“This is my first, like, proper big project, by myself.” 

 

The more Harry says the more embarrassed he looks, like he’s worried Louis is catching on to him constantly switching between rapid, stammering word jumbles to very slow but full sentences. He is, but he’s more confused as to why he doesn’t remember it from the other night. However, a light dig is far better than expressing a growing irritation with Harry every time he stutters, so he tries the former. 

 

“In that case, you should know that it’s generally not advised to snoop around unsupervised. Especially when you’re, um…” he regards the moved costume rack, “...a danger to the set.” 

Harry smiles at that, looking down at his feet, and returns his question so softly Louis might die, “How come you’re here?” 

“Don’t you  _ love  _ employment?”

It sounds so stupid coming out of his mouth that Louis questions whether he can even speak English, or if this whole time everyone’s just been awkwardly nodding along to his nonsense as part of some extended charity case. He really has no business thinking badly of Harry’s speech if he’s going to spout bollocks like that in return, yet it doesn’t register with Harry at all, raising his head wide-eyed and open-mouthed, 

 

"You’re a  _ ballet  _ dancer?"

This is no stranger to the job. Louis' heard everyone say everything there is upon this particular revelation, from mildly improper to outright uncalled for. He drops the doubt along with his arms, folding them hard against his chest, and answers stiffly,

"Yes."

But Harry's eyes light up, sun on grass, with dimples six feet deep and how could Louis forget...

"That's so cool! Oh wow, I was so scared I wouldn't get on with any of you and none of you would like me--"

He must mistake Louis’ frown as offended rather than confused, because he backtracks so quickly Louis can hardly get a word in.

"Not that, that’s the case, we’ve only just met, but Liam said you were cool and I think you are, really cool, and I'm so sorry this is going all wrong and you probably think I'm--"

"Harry."

 

He stops. All frazzle.

 

"It's okay. Chill. All good."

He lets out another deep breath, rubbing his temples in quiet frustration.

"I'm  _ really  _ bad with new people, I swear I’m not like this most of the time."

Louis snorts, "No worries. I usually am."

He gestures to the edge of the stage before taking a seat there himself, cross-legged, watching Harry fumble as he tries to join him with as much grace and coordination as possible. They sit with a sliver of distance between them, looking at the absent audience.

 

“I’d give you a tour but I’m still not convinced you’re allowed to be here, so.”

"No, this is great. I can't believe you dance here..."

Louis thinks, _ someone like me, couldn't possibly be successful, couldn't possibly... _

"It must be so scary. But amazing. Scary and amazing.”

Hmm. 

“When did I tell you about dancing anyway?” 

“In the car. I asked you what you did.” 

This answer is prompt; Louis wonders why some things take him so long to say and others don’t. Harry mistakes his frown to be a self-reflecting one. 

 

“It’s really not as bad as you’re thinking. You were very nice.” 

He knows what  _ nice  _ means. 

“I  _ did  _ hit on you, didn’t I?” 

“I think you tried...” Harry admits, “didn’t want to say and make it awkward for you, especially if there  _ was  _ a boyfriend...” 

“Well, sorry. Bit embarrassing. Hope I haven’t reflected poorly on Liam or like, I don’t know,” he takes in a breath, adopting his own huffy version of Harry’s overly-explanatory rambling. “We’re not even really friends, anymore, I don’t know why he said you should meet me, I’m not, we’re not, yeah.” 

“He still considers you a friend, definitely.”

 

“Why, what’d he say?” 

Harry speaks with the dulcet, mellow tone, only slightly faltering when Louis snaps his head to face him. 

“Just that. That you’re a great guy and that he admires your work ethic. I didn’t really get that fully until today though, until I saw your pictures, actually."

"My what?"

"In my meeting, Katie showed me the last promo shots from a couple... terms? Seasons? Something about birds, not the swan one, something else. Looked so stunning, it must've been a great show..."

Les Deux Pigeons, he recalls fondly, "It was."

 

He remembers the day the cast list went up. Calling Jay in the changing room, streaming with tears, so unbelievably buzzed. Rehearsals with Eleanor, dizzy early mornings, the many after parties and before parties and during parties.

 

“Can’t believe that’s you,” Harry gazes up at the high ceiling again, then at him with same awe, “Can’t believe I’m talking to the same person.. I’m like, starstruck.” 

Louis shrugs, hoping it shifts the discomfort with it, “Just try to do my job well.” 

“It shows, even in photos. Can’t wait to see it for real.” 

“Oh, ha, you won’t. I’ll be stuck in the back waving like, palm leaves, or something.” 

Harry’s face twists, confused. “Why’d you say that?” 

“Didn’t do my job well. Stuck in the corps for the foreseeable future.” 

“Oh. Katie said… Oh.” 

 

He cuts off abruptly. Louis doubles back.

"Sorry, Katie?"

"The artistic director? She--"

"I know who she is, which is why I'm curious as to why you're on a first name basis with her."

Harry pauses, as if he's working out whether he'd just been asked a trick question.

"Aren't you? I thought you were the star here."

“Oh god, Harry, there’s being nice and then there’s kissin’ arse. At least buy me dinner first.”

 

He’s not usually privy to this genre of jokes, but Harry is sufficiently flustered to brush over it himself, which is endearing in itself.

"Well she certainly seems to think so... Anyway, I've known Katie a long time, it's how I got the job," he grins at Louis too wide, legs swinging so that the back of his heels hit the side of the stage.

"What do you get out of it?"

"A full portfolio. And evidently, hanging out in places like this. Just as long as I don't break anything..."

"I'll keep you in check, don't you worry."

“Will you?”

 

Maybe he prefers the stuttering. Whenever Harry slips into that low tone Louis feels like he’s staring down into his soul somehow, searching for deeper answers than Louis is willing to give, nothing quite so anonymously casual. He doesn’t have an answer, because it is all too serious, but he can’t bring himself to break Harry’s unwavering gaze either. A brief vibration excuses him from having to choose.

**_sorry couldnt text you before, had a 4hour session run over and customer complained, if you wanna come over watch a movie instead im cool w that. Z_ **

Cool. Louis clears his throat, locking his phone to switch gears.

"What’s next on your itinerary then, Harold? Where are you breaking into after this?"

Harry falls back into the grin, carrying the same exaggerated tone as Louis’,

"Last heist before I clear up my act, y’know, for old times’ sake,” he leans back too far and panics, quickly sitting upright to a more genuine answer. “I was going to mentally prepare for our meeting tomorrow, but since you've already broken me in we don’t  _ have  _ to make it a thing…”   
  
“No, we can have a thing. I want a thing. Um, maybe next week though?”   
He’s not sure he can handle much more social interaction at this point in time; since returning to the real world it’s kind of hit him like a truck.   
“Oh thank god, I feel like I’ve embarrassed myself enough so far… You know, we’ve met twice now, by accident, both times already having plans to meet! Isn’t that crazy?”

 

Louis shrugs, placing his knee under his chin and wrapping his arms around it, “I guess. Unless you’re stalking me, and just not very good at it.” 

“Okay, so the circumstances are a bit dodgy… I’ll get a permission slip from Katie next time…” 

 

He scrunches his nose up at ‘Katie’ again. Guess networking is everything...

"So for next week, where would you like to go?” Harry prods, and Louis feels bad for thinking it, “‘Cause if this is the sort of time you finish I'm thinking only dinner and a movie? Unless that’s like, common-folk entertainment…”

Louis no longer feels bad. 

“I  _ am  _ common-folk. You think everyone here is posh shit?” 

Raising his voice is enough to get Harry panicked again, eyes wide in absolute terror at having potentially said the wrong thing. It’s a little funny. 

“I don’t know these things! The  _ Royal  _ Opera House has certain connotations!” 

“‘Connotations’! Do I sound anything like Queen’s English to you?”

“You can dispel them for me?” he offers, though it verges on a slightly shrill plea, “Would love to hear more about ballet, and you. Ballet and you. And you sound lovely!”

 

Pandering. He’s not one to tolerate it, but it sits nice and warm with him against better judgement. And he  _ has  _ been toying with Harry’s anxieties for a while... 

“Kiss-arse. We can meet like, 12, got an hour free for… break. Get coffee or tea or something."

"I'll pick you up here then?"

"In a Bentley, I hope. Posh shit, and that."

“I’ll wear my new coat!” 

 

The coat! 

 

“ _ Fuck  _ , that was yours?” 

“Oh, from the other night. Yes,” he looks up to the side as if remembering some sordid detail from the other night, “You did seem fond of it...” 

“Fuck the Bentley then. Bring the coat.”

Harry grins for the last time, and it might be the worst one, because Louis considers just staring until it goes away, like it's something to savour and not just a facial expression on a friend of a friend with very green eyes and a very captivating manner. Clearly his cue to leave. He jumps down the steps to slip his shoes back on and retrieves the duffle bag from where he's tossed it aside, swinging it over his shoulder just as Harry stands up to join him. He _ really  _ is fucking tall.

 

“Gotta head off. Trusting you not to set the stage on fire on your way out.”

"I’ll try my best!” he laughs, kicking the back of it jokingly, “You gonna be okay?"

Louis stills, wary meeting Harry’s eyes again.

"Why wouldn’t I be?"

"Getting home? I can walk you to the station at least..."

"Oh, no, all good. I'm meeting someone so it's, yeah, I'll be fine."

He offers a reassuring smile, a little tight despite the relief. Harry is glad to return it.   
  


"See you next week, then, Lou."

"Bye Harold."

  
And with those last words running through through his mind, he realises what he’s just signed himself up for despite being given a generous and perfectly excusable escape clause. Despite the fact that he would’ve gotten away with an impromptu meeting where he had all of the control. Despite the fact that... He really wants to see him again.

__

He walks out into pouring rain, fully soaked by the time he reaches the station. Sheltered by the overhanging roof, he stands shifting his weight from foot to foot as he taps a vague response to Zayn, a fresh cigarette propped in the corner of his mouth.

 

**_Really tired , just gonna go home mate . Rain check on the movie ?_ **

 

The train arrives 2 minutes late and he has to wade through a mass of grumbling commuters to get on, knocking his knee on at least three individual briefcases before he's pressed into a designated corner of the carriage. And even then, blocked by what feels like half of London in a sweaty, steaming tube of misery, he smiles a private smile into his coat, somehow excited for their next meeting.

  
  
  
  



	6. 4a. Adagio

Louis drags his mouth on the back of his hand, a guttural clear of the throat. He focuses on the heat leaving his joints where his knees touch the bathroom floor, mildly numbing but almost pleasant, especially in conjunction with the humid circulation in the tiny space. Rising, he turns to fumble with the lock and pushes the cubicle door open.

 

At the sink, he hastily rummages in his bag with his left hand for a bottle of water, trying to distract himself from the taste on his tongue by mulling over justifications. He hates this part. Taking a generous swig, he swirls it all around in his mouth before spitting it out into the drain. His eyes sting. He clears his throat once more, repeats the whole process, then washes his hands of the deed.

 

_ “Leaving already?” one of the ballet masters had remarked. _

 

Damage control follows as normal. He checks for blood in his eyes, wipes sweat off his brow, the back of his neck. His hands tremble when touching his skin, so he washes them again, letting the chill water run over flushed knuckles.

 

 _He could cancel._ _He could still cancel and go back in and rehearse that last sequence a couple more times until it was better. And he could make that perfect and then rehearse something else, until that was perfect too._

 

But he zips up his bag and swings it over his shoulder, wincing when it thuds against his back. He darts his glance away from the mirror and, after a resounding ruffle of his fringe, he makes his way out of the bathroom and down the corridor to the main entrance.

 

Harry’s texted a couple of times, which Louis (begrudgingly) admits has been comforting. In fact, he’d been texting since he woke up at 5:00 for his morning run, and then continued to send messages after Louis started rehearsal. They varied from half-arsed puns to gems such as “handbag branch” to incessant apologies for texting so much. Danielle had even commented on the constant buzzing, some harmless comment about people fighting over Louis. He thinks about that passing the costume department, about how it might’ve been a dig instead.

 

The strain in his ankles has yet to subside so his steps are slow, measured. He’s torn between not disappointing Harry and not disappointing everyone else, including himself, wishing the decision to postpone their meeting and run back to the studio to make up for the wasted time was an easy one to make.

 

Yet, for some reason he's determined to at least make it down to reception to see whether Harry is already waiting, so he decides, in what is decidedly a Niall approach, to form a hasty ultimatum. If he’s there, they go, if he's not, they cancel, the decision anxiously pressed back into fate’s hands.   
  


“Louis!” he hears not even a second later, the source of the sound having just opened the doors from the foyer with remarkable ease.   
  
And so fate decides. Pity.   
  
Today Harry looks far more normal, to the point that Louis almost expresses his disappointment with the plain white shirt paired with jeans that seem to pose less of a risk to his circulation, until he catches sight of the most ridiculous element of the look and blanks on all snarky commentary.   
  
“What… What are those?”   
“My shoes!” Harry beams, twisting his foot so that Louis can indeed see that they are very gold and very high, and the more he looks at them the less he’d be willing to call them shoes in any practical sense. “You don’t like them?”   
“Not really my thing,” he admits, restraining further critique that this might be why Harry has trouble with coordination in the first place. Catching sight of his coat, camel beige folded over his arm, seems to be distraction enough. “ _ This _ , however...”   
  
Forgetting to ask before running his hand over the soft leather, the fur lining, Harry is quick to hand it to him, tugging his bag to carry in exchange.    
  
“You can wear it if you like. Although, might be a bit too warm for it today.”   
  


He certainly would like. Pulling it on he starts to feel a bit childish, like he’s playing dress-up, and he considers what he’s doing shuffling coats in the reception of his workplace, about to leave at break to do… what? Not work. The fleeting fear that it might not fit is short-lived as the sleeves graze his knuckles, and he winces before folding them over.    
  
Now he realises how odd it might look, the coat hung over his post-class workout attire, and how foolish it was not to consider how self-conscious it would make him in the long run, looking sweaty and tired and gross next to pretty, put-together Harry. In pretty, put-together Harry’s coat, no less.

  
The answer is Very. He curls his shoulders inwards.

 

“You ready to go?”   
  


Louis nods, feeling not at all ready to go, or ready for much of anything. The doors creak in definitive judgement as Harry opens them for him, and he wishes the pane would drop over his head as he passes the threshold like some makeshift guillotine, so that when people see him skipping valuable studio time while he’s still on what is essentially probation, he can bleed out before the guilt kills him.    
  
“So there’s this cafe I found, if I can remember where it is…”   
  
He should’ve cancelled. He should’ve said outright that he doesn’t have time to make friends, doesn’t want to make friends and he should’ve gone back to one of the studios to rehearse and he should’ve put work first and he should’ve known this was going to be an issue as soon as he caught himself wondering if he’d see Harry at work the next day. Should’ve known it was an issue regretting that he didn’t.

“Maybe if we turn here… Sorry about this, could’ve sworn it was just around the corner…”   
  


It’s not, because they end up walking in a couple circles before Harry finally finds the right side street; a narrow lane that feels less claustrophobic than the main road, which had been saturated with tourists and shoppers. He gestures to a quaint tea shop across another road, wedged between an empty gallery space and the smallest Ryman’s Louis’ ever seen. He tries to settle down his anxieties to socially competent. Harry opens the door with a tinny bell jingle that only seems to aggravate them.  _ Relax relax relax. _   
  
“Here we are!”

 

They’re promptly seated on a couple of equally gorgeous but uncomfortable iron chairs, where Harry greets one of the passing waitresses with warm familiarity as she hands them the menu cards, happily chatting about a new blend that has far too many syllables. Louis bites the inside of his cheek and transfers his glower to the elegant script at the top of the card. Serendipitea. He shouldn’t even be surprised at this point.

 

“Is this okay?” Harry asks tentatively when the waitress leaves them, Louis still fixed in a bit of a scowl. He should probably stop that.   
“No, sorry, fine. Just,” he points to one of the items on the list, heading a lengthy block of text. “What?”   
“Rooibos. It’s like a red tea that’s not really a tea at all, so they--”   
“See, that’s great and all, but does it really warrant an entire paragraph about the ‘nutty notes’ and history of harvesting?”   
Harry smiles, tapping another item on his own menu.   
“I suppose not… Guessing you’ll pass on the pu-erh?”   
“Now  _ that  _ sounds appetising, fucking hell... I’ll have the bog standard builder’s one, don’t know why they make it so complicated.” Louis flips the card to look at the back. “Do they have almond milk? Course they do, why did I ask…”

 

Harry grins, dimples surfacing, and gets up in one swift motion to order at the counter, Louis watching as he hooks one boot over the other ankle and back again in the reflection of the glass, all perfect angles when he’s not tripping over himself. Who has legs like that, and what did he have to do to get them? Someone enters the shop with a chilly gust of wind and Louis pulls the coat around him closer, relaxing when Harry comes back, and tensing when he sees the receipt crumpled in his hand.

 

“You should’ve said you were paying already, we could’ve split it!”   
“It’s no trouble!” Harry insists lightly, an airy tone to balance the slightly histrionic one edging Louis’ complaint.   
“No, because now we have to go out for tea again so we can be even.”   
“It’s really not a big deal, Lou, honest...”   
  


The waitress returns with their tea before Louis can inform him exactly why he’s wrong, a mildly panicked thrum threatening to escalate to shaking if he lets it. He’s momentarily distracted by Harry’s pot, which, unlike Louis’ plain white china one, is glass, a small bulb perched on the bottom. He is then further distracted watching it slowly unfurl in the hot water, colour diffusing along the bottom first, then rising up by the edges. Harry pours some out into a matching glass teacup. Louis looks up at him with measured but clear distaste.    
  
“It’s jasmine flowering t--”   
“Please don’t say anything else.”

 

It’s ridiculous enough for him to move past the payment issue with a deep sigh, one that Harry quirks an amused smirk at behind his cup - either he means for Louis to see it or he forgets that glass is transparent. Either way, Louis pours his own tea, carefully but casually measuring out two teaspoons of milk. Harry watches him, sipping silently and still smiling.   
  
“You can talk now, I’m over it,” Louis says finally.   
“It’s really nice...”   
“Nope, not over it. This place is ridiculous. I’d be willing to bet the napkins are made out of quinoa.”   
Harry pretends to mull over the taste as he sets down his cup, proudly professing, “I detect a hint of  _ hostilitea _ …” He then drinks some more as if to make sure.

“Just a hint? Guess the rest is  _ nastea _ .”    
  
Louis can’t believe he’s making puns now, but that thought becomes irrelevant when it makes Harry snort loudly, unceremoniously spitting out some of his tea on their table, and Louis can’t help but feel accomplished. He takes a sip of his own and relishes in the way it burns down his throat. “That bad?”

Harry’s grin only grows wider, wiping down the surface with the aforementioned quinoa napkins without dropping their eye contact, which Louis can’t recall ever signing up for. It’s unnerving, especially since it’s Harry who’s supposed to be bashful in these interactions.

 

“You’re a bit of a menace, little bird.”

Louis stares. “What did you just call me?”

“Little bird or menace?”   
“Both, but I’m confused by the first one.”   
He sits back and cocks his head, observing him attentively.    
“I don’t know, you remind me of a bird in a way. Maybe it was the photos I saw.”   
“I wasn’t actually a pigeon in Les Deux Pigeons, you know. That’s just what it’s called.”   
Harry rolls his eyes. “It’s more the way you hold yourself, I think. Like you’re quite…” (Louis braces himself for the worst), “Compact, small, but you’d brave a storm to get to where you’re going no problem. And I get the impression that you’re restless a lot of the time, flighty, so like a bird. But not a pigeon. Maybe like a hummingbird, or a swallow...” 

“Well you look like a frog when you smile like that.”

The bitter retort doesn’t register, Harry lighting up gleefully as if he’s been gifted the height of all compliments.   
“You're not the first to say so! But I won't use it again if you don't like it.”

Louis considers.

 

“Enough about tea. Back to the real business, which is… you making friends, I guess.”

“Ooh, speaking of, I have something to show you!”   
  
He eyes him warily as Harry twists in his chair to look at the back, then turns around with a confused expression before pointing at Louis, who is still swamped in the coat.   
  
“Left inner pocket, have a look.”   
  


A hesitant search produces a 20p coin, two train tickets and a staff ID card, much like Louis’, except featuring a photo of Harry with a winning smile and his hair gathered up into a bun.   
“Confirmation of my employment, as requested,” he boasts, sounding very pleased with himself. Louis raises an eyebrow.    
“Your name is Harry  _ Styles _ ?”   
“As far as I know, yep.”   
“That’s what’s on your birth certificate? As in, you were born with that name and you didn’t change it because you had a dream of becoming a world renowned rockstar?”   
“Will not dispute the dream. But yes,” he raises up his cup to mask a jokingly disgruntled face, “You ask for more identification than my bank...”   
“You can call me little bank next...” Louis mutters, turning the card over to look at the back. Harry snorts again, this time choking a little. Thankfully he clears it up with a hearty laugh before Louis has to get up and assist him, though it does draw even more attention from the other patrons.   
  
“Again?” Louis tuts, pouring himself another cup followed by the same measure of milk, “Disgusting.”

“Can’t help it,” Harry sighs blissfully, suddenly seeming very close and very warm, professing, “you’re a riot...” as Louis swears he can feel his skin burning.

“This is what you asked for, remember that.”   
“True. I did also want to hear more about ballet though, if you could...”   
  
Somehow that’s the thing that catches him off guard, even though this is the one thing they had actually agreed would come up. Louis gives a quick response to cover up what would be otherwise be a nervous pause, gathering the appropriate thoughts for his next cue.   
  
“It is... a dance.”   
“Both true and insightful. How did you get into it?”   
That one’s straightforward; he’s summed it up too many times to count.    
“Pretty standard. I went to see a performance with my school and then begged for lessons. Swan Lake. Pretty sure that’s like, everyone’s first. Then I got into the school here for like, the last two years, and then got a spot in the company when I turned 18.”   
Harry sticks out his bottom lip when he nods, which is a phenomenon Louis watches so intently that he misses his follow-up question as coherent words, registering it only as very pretty mouth movements that - purely by coincidence - match up with Harry’s voice.   
  
“Sorry, what?”   
“What’s been your favourite show to do?”   
Can he pick? Does he want to? Can he even think about it without having to consider how long it’s going to be before he’ll be fronting a show again, how far he’s got to crawl back to first soloist, and would they even take him, since Thomas has taken his slot and they don’t need him anymore, did they ever need him?   
“I couldn’t choose, honestly. They’re all special for their own reasons, like, each one’s got it’s story, and that’s what you perform, but they all carry their own history too, who’s danced all the roles before and everything they put into them…”   
  
“...And then there’s your bit, what you put in when you’re dancing them, and that can be trivial or it can be profound, and you hope you get to that level of profound where everyone who dances after you acknowledges what you put in. You want that to become part of the official character, your interpretation, you want it to matter...”   
  
“That doesn’t…” he shifts in his seat, turning to look down, to the side. “Doesn’t really answer your question. I don’t know if I have a favourite. I don’t know if I’ve danced anything that matters that much yet.”   
  
When he looks back it seems that Harry’s dulled down a bit, looking far more thoughtful, or distant, or bored, and Louis’ probably misread something again, knowing him, and how he is, and he shouldn't have talked so much because who cares? No one, not Harry, who wanted a clear answer, so that must mean it’s his fault and his turn.   
  
“Sorry, so, now I ask you--”   
Softly, “--don’t have to--”   
“-- about yours, okay. No. Better question,” Louis clears his throat, suppressing the gnawing accusations of saying too much out of turn, wondering just how he let himself slip into such stupid, genuine discussion.

  
“You’re a photographer, right, which is like an artist squared.”

Harry perks up, raising an eyebrow in interest. “How is that?”

“Neither of you make money but at least people acknowledge like, painting-art to be a skill. Anyone can be a ‘photographer’ if they put it in their instagram bio.”

He smiles. That’s good. “I suppose so…”

“So my question is, how did you afford to move to London,  _ drive  _ in London, and then fund tea meetings with people you met, drunk, in a bar?”

  
“Well… barely,” Harry answers, brighter in spirits again; Louis must have been right. “I had a lot of side jobs, saved up, didn’t get uni debt… Then I got an apprenticeship with Ben Winston working here--”   
“You say that like I should know who that is.”   
“Really? I was scared it’d be like, name dropping, wow…” Louis gestures for him to continue, “Sorry, okay, so, Ben’s like, actually brilliant. He works with a lot of designer brands for shoots, celebrity promo, that kind of thing, but he’s got this… thing, that…”

 

Harry trails off, the sunny ardour with which he was about to launch into an elaborate analysis dampened as he seems to struggle to find the right words. He smiles again, returning, and runs his hand through his hair with a comparably lame explanation.

  
“He’s just really great, so, it was an honour to get the chance to work under him and kind of… yeah. That’s most of my livelihood. The car I had before, the landlord for the apartment is really nice, and I would  _ gladly  _ fund far more extravagant meetings with the people I have met drunk in a bar. Tea is nothing.”

Louis sits back.   
“So you’ve got Winston paying your bills, and then… ‘Katie’... is a, what, family friend?”   
“Sort of, yeah! She knew I was coming to London already and offered me the opportunity.”

 

He’s still convinced it’s an entirely different Katie Ray, can’t imagine anything that isn’t pure objective method even computes in her mind. Hiring someone because of their connections or who they are over their credentials seems like the last thing she would do.

  
“You photograph shows before?”   
“Not really…” Harry admits, “I used to do portraits and then had a phase for architecture, but this is a bit new to me…” he inches closer, particularly sheepish, like he’s parting with a secret, “I don’t think I’ve even been to a proper ballet, actually…”

 

_ Jesus Christ, _ is the immediate thought, but Louis indicates nothing of the sort, simply raising an eyebrow and putting away musings about the true nature of Harry’s employment for a later date.

  
“Was that supposed to move me? I’ve been friends with this guy since I was 14 and he’s slept through all four of the performances I’ve convinced him to come to. His one review of Romeo & Juliet was,” he does his best Irish accent for this, “‘the seats were nice, but the prick in front of us kept snoring and waking me up’. The bar is  _ low _ .”   
Either the anecdote distracts him or the evasion of perceived conflict does, Harry shifting in his seat. 

“Is that Zayn? The friend?”   
“No, no, Zayn’s like the stark opposite, only ever missed a couple.” Always late, but always showed up. “Niall, actually, you might’ve met before.”    
No question of how he knows that, thankfully. Instead, Harry’s face lights up in affectionate recognition and Louis swears he feels warmer just by witnessing it.   
  
“I remember Niall! Does he still have purple hair?”   
“Nope, you just, um, just caught him at a strange point in his life.”   
“14, though, that’s ages…” Harry places his head in his hand with a musing expression, “What’s the secret?”   
“Too much accumulated blackmail material.”   
Harry snorts, nodding to himself, “I feel that. Liam’s witnessed some weird stuff over the years… I was gonna ask, actually, when did you meet? Feel like I should’ve heard about you earlier...”   
  
He’s glad he hasn’t. Despite all of his good graces, he doubts Liam would have had anything favourable to report at that stage when it’s surprising he had anything this time around.   
  
“Zayn introduced us when they got together. Only ever acquaintances by proxy, really.”    
Harry frowns. “Wait, your friend Zayn is Liam’s Zayn?”   
Louis struggles to not match his expression at the way it’s put.

“Not anymore, but same one, yeah. I thought you met?”

“We have, once, I just didn’t recognise him. Liam used to call him something else so I guess I just didn’t put it together… Oh wow…” he sits back as if this new connection means he has to ponder the world through a wider lens. “Wouldn’t think he’d invite him out after the, um...”   
“Yeah.”   
  
At least this is a subject they both want to avoid.   
  
“Liam’s great though, really nice guy, right?”   
“‘course, yeah.”    
He decides against mentioning how badly they meshed for the first couple of months, or the fact that it was mostly his fault.   
“We’ve been friends for ages, so, basically brothers...”   
To his credit, once it became clear that things were getting pretty serious between them Louis did start making an effort to bridge the gap to at least partial civility, and then, quite surprisingly, a casual friendship.    
“... Really helped with moving and um… Yeah, big help…”   
Less to his credit, it did take eavesdropping on a particularly tearful phone call between the couple for him to come to that conclusion, and another few months to realise there was no sordid plot to replace him.

  
Harry looks at him like he’s said something else. So much for changing his first impression as a certified prat.   
  
“Sorry, missed that.”

“The one you’re doing now… Balanchine’s Jewels?”   
Back to work, good.   
“That’s almost done, right? Are Zayn and Niall coming to see this one?”   
He shakes his head. “There’s a couple shows left, but I’m just an understudy. Doubt I’ll perform this one at all.”   
Harry mouths an ‘oh’, but continues to prod.   
“You excited for the next one then?”   
“I’m…” Louis takes a breath, exhales with a strained smile, “grateful to be back. Let’s go with that.”   
“But you’re not, I don’t know, curious about what you’re doing next?”   
“I’m in the corps. There’s nothing to wonder about.”   
_ Careful, snappish. _   
“But what if--”   
“I’m not… There’s no point thinking about it like that,” he snaps, regretting it immediately. Still agitated, he tries to smooth the sudden shift over with an explanation. “I have to work back up from the bottom so, I just want to get through to a point where I can do solos again.”    
  
When that isn’t enough to appease a slightly shaken Harry, he takes another breath and curses himself for ever agreeing to a one-on-one situation with someone who doesn’t inherently know which subjects he’s not supposed to push. Then, follows with a more emotional angle he expects Harry will accept with no further question.    
  
“It’s… difficult. To be excited about having to start everything all over again.”   
  


He does.   
  


So much so, in fact, that they sit in relative silence for what feels like two months, though the clock on the wall’s minute hand barely makes a full circle. This is where the guilt sets in, and Louis feels a surging and frankly confusing urge to get Harry to smile and talk and spit tea on their table again. Anything but this, but also specifically those things, specifically happy chatty Harry, before Louis ever said anything dumb and cold but rather felt honoured to make him laugh.   
  
Except Louis  _ is _ dumb and cold. And the more he wants to go back to before the more he’s itching to leave as soon as possible. Wanting otherwise doesn’t hide the fact that he knows in his very core that he doesn’t belong here. He can’t remember how he even got here. How did he let this happen, how did he not see it before?

 

“I should get going.”   
Harry’s eyes widen, and Louis is even more torn than before.  _ Stupid stupid stupid. _ __   
“I’m sorry, if I--”    
“No, nothing like that. Break’s almost over, so, gotta get back.”   
  


He stands up too quickly and catches himself on the table, tense and rigid as soon as he gets his balance back. Harry gets up, and Louis remembers he’s still wearing his coat.   
  


“Should give this back, probably.” Definitely.  _ Run run run. _ __   
“I can walk you back?”   
“No, all good.” Louis all but shoves the coat into Harry’s arms, awkwardly retrieving his duffle bag from under the table. “Enjoy your, uh,” he gestures to the pot, praying that Harry just sits down,“flower water.”   
He looks hesitant to do so. Louis feels like he’s going to die if he doesn’t get back right in this moment, and the feeling only rises as Harry starts to speak with a downcast gaze, slow and dragging although he probably doesn’t intend it to be.   
  
“It was nice to see you again. I really, um. Really enjoyed chatting with you, and, I’m grateful for you making time for me...”   
“Sure, me too, great.”   
“Will I see you again?”   
Harry looks up, of course he does, and Louis meets his eyes without a second thought considering the risks of agreeing to things he shouldn’t when faced with such earnest hope and green green green.   
  
“If you want to.”

“Very much so.”   
  


He thinks he nods, or at least he means to, before quickly pushing his chair in and making his way to the door, that annoying pitchy bell ringing in tandem with a couple of rapid steps and a deeper tone.   
  
“Louis?”   
  
The eyes again. Louis might be on his way to sell his soul, or what’s left of it, should Harry ask. Instead, he glances nervously to each side, then decides it’s worth confiding.   
  
“Don’t worry about… Solos. I’m sure it’ll be no time at all.”

  
  


This time he does nod, and hopes to god that he’s right.

  
  



	7. 4b. Adagio

With another sleepless night under his belt, Louis wants nothing more than to curl up in bed and die. The prospect of being emotionally stomped on at work (as he can safely expect to be) is hardly attractive, and yet he’s dressed and ready in less than ten minutes, stopping only to make himself a cup of tea to take with him. He knows just how much it'll fucking hurt going down but the flask keeps his hands warm, and for that he is ever so grateful.

 

It's just about 5:10 when he signs himself in, 5:15 swinging open the men's locker room door. He can barely put his bag down before he's shaken violently by a pair of lithe hands that seem to have followed him in. 

 

“ONDINE!”

 

It's Eleanor, this time lacking her protective posse of friends. She looks somewhat rattled with half the usual amount of under eye concealer, perhaps due to her early morning in the studio; she's not usually one to roll in before 6am. Despite that, her hair is up in a ponytail high as all heavens and she’s dressed in one of her less revealing dance outfits.

 

“What?” he mumbles groggily, squinting as if that might help in discerning why she’s looking at him expecting a reaction. Or better yet, why she’s talking to him in the first place.

“Ondine. This season. Hello?”   
“Hi. Since when?”   
“They’re squeezing it in, it’s not on the production list yet. Going up today, and we’re getting the announcement after rehearsals.”   
A perfect reason to not attack him in the morning and let him hear about it after rehearsals... Why does everyone insist on talking to him so much? He yawns into his flask.   
“How do you even know?”

She rolls her eyes, increasingly exasperated. “Not the point, it's Ondine! Like we did for the showcase!” 

 

Of course. After all, how could he forget the pas de deux Eleanor dragged him into at 15, right when he had decided that maybe everyone was right and he should buckle down with academics and a ‘Plan B’, which, to be fair, wouldn’t have lasted anyway. The excuse of ‘helping his old dance school classmate’ justified abandoning said Plan B and, by encouraging him to compete in the Grand Prix, did indirectly earn him his current job. But that’s hardly the point. He sits down on the bench and sips from his flask, still not sure what Eleanor wants him to say. Thankfully, she keeps talking on her own accord.

  
“Okay, so we're not really friends anymore...”   
He frowns. “Were we ever friends?”   
“No, we weren’t, but this is the ultimate flashback.” Eleanor places her hand on her hip, cocking her head at him. “Don’t you have a heart?”

“Sure I do. What I don't have is a soloist position, as I’m sure Thomas would be happy to tell you.”   
She rolls her eyes. “Thomas needs to spend less time talking and more time at the barre. Have you seen his turnout? Abysmal.”   
Louis shrugs. “As long as he can lift you on the night, right?”   
  
She doesn’t acknowledge the implication, though Louis swears she has to suppress a satisfied smile before following up with another question.   
“You gonna audition for Palemon?”   
This again. He shakes his head ‘no’, turning to the lockers in hopes that it communicates how much he doesn’t want another version of this conversation. Knowing his luck, they might start asking him questions too...   
“Hoping they’ll cast me as the shipwreck. Feel that’d be appropriate considering the way my career is going.”

“Oh please, this corps BS is all formality,” she scoffs, “You get a slap on the wrist, feel shitty, and then they give you the Nutcracker come winter, regardless of whatever shit you pulled last season…”

 

He's refusing to meet her eyes but that doesn’t stop her talking, or the intimidating stare burning into his cheek as he pretends to fumble with the drawstring bag holding his shoes. If it keeps her from seeing his hands shaking, he’ll take it. 

 

“What shit  _ did _ you pull anyway? I feel like you could take four dicks at once and still pirouette into the studio the next morning. Must've been something major for you to bail on opening night like that…”

 

He looks up, realising a stoic stand-off is the only way to end this interrogation, since nothing else has seemed to work so far. Eyes as earnest as he can manage, focused, he keeps everything neutral. 

“Didn’t pull any shit. My leg seized up, couldn't dance. ‘S all.”   
She scoffs again, almost mocking, “Oh fuck  _ off, _ Tomlinson, I've seen you dance on shattered ankles, sprains, breaks, everything. You got carted off, sure, but no one disappears for five months over their leg ‘ _ seizing up’ _ , especially not you...”   
“And yet I did!” he claps his hands together, “Thanks for all the questions, loved our chat. Let’s not do this again.”   
“If you're gonna lie then don't say anything at all.”

“Then don't ask questions you don't want answers to,” he snaps, struggling much less to maintain their eye contact now that it’s switched to challenging and confrontational.   
  


After a drawn out silence he starts to suspects Eleanor doesn't blink. Before he can tell her so she frowns, moving in closer as if to investigate. Before Louis can move away she grabs his arm tight, and with surprising strength forces him to face he despite his best efforts to squirm away.

“What happened to your eyes Louis?”   
“What?”   
“You’re bleeding. In the corner, there’s a bit--”

 

No hold can stop him then, as he uses all the force he can muster to jerk away so that his frame hits the lockers. Eleanor just about maintains her balance but bangs her elbow on the wall behind, lost for words at the outburst. Louis keeps his eyes down and away, heavy lidded, a simulated casual tone.   
  
“Louis…”   
“You gonna watch me change or what?”   
  


With little left to say she storms out, letting the door slam behind her. 

 

**   
  


The more time Louis spends with the corps the more certain he is he’s hit rock bottom. It feels like he’s getting the most basic things wrong, almost as if it’s his first time doing them. He sees apprentices, students, perform more accurate movements than him, swears he hears snickers whenever he’s asked to demonstrate for the corps. He tries to be better, but the more he runs through the steps the worse they come out. Snickers and murmurs turn to laughter, something maniacal.

 

The ballet master, Alberto, finds himself lost as to what to do with Louis in the corps. From technique to execution, the boy is a soloist through and through, glides through steps like breathing, something transformative the longer he’s allowed to go on, captivating to watch. It’s painfully obvious how much he doesn’t belong, how much he sticks out when Alberto keeps him on the same page as everyone else. Occasionally he has to rein him in, like a wild horse forced to drive royal carriages. It’s unfortunate, really.   
  
_ “Can I do that again?” _ he asks incessantly. Alberto allows it to appease him, hoping the demotion isn’t taking too hard a toll on him. It sets a good example of self-improvement for the apprentices and the students, and he’s lucky to have Louis to help out, but he can’t help feeling like he’s wasting his time here. 

 

When class ends Louis stays behind with no intention to pack up anytime soon. Alberto takes that opportunity to check in with him.   
  
“You doing good?”    
“Am I?” he asks, not having caught the inquisitive tone.    
“Oh, in class, sure. I meant in general. You settling back in okay?”   
His eyes shift like he’s recalibrating, readjusting to a convincing smile and blank eyes but not meeting Alberto’s directly, a little off to the right.   
“Of course.”   
  
He looks ready to leave then, so Alberto lets him go.    
  
**   
  


Like clockwork, the instructors wrap up rehearsal as soon as Madame walks in, dancers curiously watching her head to the front of the room with metronome steps. She stands facing the company with unshakeable stillness, eyes grazing the tops of heads as she begins to introduce the announcement.

 

“Ondine is the story of a water-nymph, who falls in love with the mortal, Palemon,”

 

Everyone is quiet, respectful, some even sitting cross legged on the floor like school children in assembly with a strict headmaster. Louis keeps his gaze down, a fraction away from closing his eyes completely. His Emeralds is still a little subpar, and every second that passes is one that could be spent improving it, gone to waste.

 

“For those unfamiliar with the story, Palemon deserts his human intended, Berta, to marry Ondine. Ondine’s uncle, the Lord of the Mediterranean Sea, warns Ondine against what she intends to do, but when she goes against his advice he creates a tempest while the pair are at sea to physically retrieve Ondine from the human world,”   
  
He was meant to get it up to standard, so he’s even more behind than when he started.  _ That’s what happens when you divide your time to distractions instead of catching up. So stupid. _ He wouldn’t have to sit here and pray that Madame’s too busy to ask him about it if he just fucking did his job, wouldn’t have to stress.  _ You like your job being on the line? Because people already know you’re shit. Fucking up in class, getting checked up on. If Alberto can tell you’re behind, what’s Madame going to say? Nothing, probably. Just throw you out. That’s what you’re asking for. _

  
“Palemon survives the shipwreck and, believing Ondine is lost, ends up marrying Berta in her place. Ondine returns to the surface and is heartbroken when she discovers Palemon’s unfaithfulness. When she kisses him, he dies and she brings his body back into the sea to stay with her forever.”

 

Madame pauses to scan the company, commanding attention. Anyone not already sitting straight fixes their posture immediately, as a subtle rustle of different fabrics confirms. She takes two strides to reach the chair that had been provided for her, running her hand along the top. Louis’ eyes follow it.

 

“This ballet was originally produced to be performed here by Dame Margot Fonteyn in 1958. For that reason it is one dear to this institution's heart, and I expect you all to bring it the same dignity, passion and energy that you would any other, perhaps more recognisable piece. I want our audiences to fall in love with Ondine as if they were Palemon themselves, and for that I need you to reintroduce her to the world. Auditions for the main roles will be held in three days’ time. Thank you, and all the best for tonight’s performance.”

 

A faint smattering of chatter curls up the walls of the studio, extinguished immediately as Madame’s eyes fix decidedly on Louis as a pre-planned afterthought, tagging on a curt request that makes Louis’ blood chill.   
  
“Tomlinson, I’d like to speak to you in my office before the end of the day.”   
  
She departs promptly after that, leaving only the consequent reactions from the company and the increasingly faint clicks of her heels. Eleanor, argument forgotten, smirks knowingly in Louis’ direction as if to say ‘I told you so’, then gets up to warm up for Jewels.

 

He’s not so sure. 

 

Half the room reflects Thomas’ snooty expression, enveloped by the favouritism argument. He feels it in the shredding up-and-down looks climbing up his spine, ripping into the cartilage that holds all the pieces together.    
  
As people start to regroup, aimlessly chatting about their nightlife plans, the show, the auditions, he walks calmly to the barre and begins working on the Emeralds legwork. He’s hardly eager anymore. Now, it’s a matter of pushing the racing anxiety out of his mind, back down his throat, anywhere that won’t infringe on doing as much as he can before he has to face Madame and the fact that he’s probably getting fired tonight.   
  
Whatever he does stifle comes rushing back with a hand on his shoulder, and he tries not to flinch, doesn’t have to turn around to know that it’s Danielle. She rubs a small, comforting circle over the area, speaking in a hushed tone that no one would hear with excited discussions already afoot.   
  
“No stress, yeah? Sure it’s nothing bad...”   
  
They’ve only got a moment, because he can hear Thomas tapping impatiently behind them, hears Danielle turn around to mouth whatever it is that keeps her there a second longer. He still doesn’t look up, instead imagining a spotlight on his feet as he conjures up the familiar steps. Not expecting Louis to respond, she leaves the interaction at that.

 

Once everyone is gone and the show has started (he only glances at the understudy list briefly, knowing he wouldn’t find his name on there even if there was an absence), he decides he can’t stall any longer. His steps up the stairs are slow but deliberate, partly due to the sense of doom in the pit of his gut and partly down to the growing ache in his knees. He knows both will only get worse. No use complaining about them now.

 

Arriving at the door he stops to inhale, exhale, and then knocks twice.

 

“Come in.”

 

The room is something of a well preserved relic, composed entirely of early 1900s furniture and framed photographs of the Royal Ballet alumni, as well as professional prints from some of the more recent productions. Several of the latter feature him, centre stage, totally engrossed in the scenes from true classics and modern pieces alike. He looks much better there, he thinks. Much better as someone else.   
  
Madame is sat at the desk, reading glasses expertly perched on her nose despite the intense manner with which she flicks through a selection of new action shots. She gestures for Louis to sit opposite to her, but does not offer him a glance. 

  
“You’ve done Ondine before.” 

It’s not a question. Louis knows best to stay quiet unless absolutely necessary, and simply nods. She assumes he has, continuing.   
  
“I wasn’t on the board when you did your Grand Prix, but I watched the recordings when we were selecting students to take on in the company. Definitely set you apart from the rest.”   
  
He’s not surprised, but hardly thinks it positive. His coach had told him it’d be better to stick with Don Quixote, but he got cocky, and stupid, and insisted on changing it last minute. The judges didn’t really know what to say, stunned into silence, but the reaction turned out to be a cautiously favourable one in the end. Got him into the Royal Ballet School, at least, but he hadn’t known Madame was involved in picking students for the company at that time…   
  
“Ondine’s less recognisable than some of the,” she gestures to the prints Louis had been looking at earlier, “‘big names’, you could say. Not a bigshot production by any means, the music outperforming the story...”   
“I wouldn’t say that…” he mutters against better judgement.  _ Shut up. _   
“...But we’d like to change that. People know how it goes, and they’re used to the formula, so we’d like to modernise what is, in my opinion, a forgotten classic, to give the audiences, and the ballet world at large, something new and fresh.”   
  
Not sure what this has to do with him being fired, since that’s the most likely outcome of this meeting, surely. Maybe she’s building up a verbal portfolio of all his flounders to illustrate the anticlimax that has been his career? Humiliate him further? She takes off her glasses to look at him, staring until he meets her gaze directly and he feels half his size. Here it comes...

 

“We’d like to have you as Ondine.”  
  
  
Oh.   
  


Her voice is the same; cool, formal, serious. By no means joking. Louis’ voice falters for time to process the massive U-turn this has taken.  _ Baffled _ is an understatement.

 

“Ondine is…”

“Traditionally a woman's role. But you know the part, and you’re not one for the traditional, so we would be foolish not to utilise you. How long have you been on pointe?”

“Started at 10, but--”

“Then you’ll be fine. We’d schedule you in for more classes, observe your technique closely, polish up any rough edges…”   
“But what about the corps?”   
She pauses, and Louis scolds himself immediately for interrupting. It’s the panic. If this is happening, the rest of the world must also be in complete chaotic free-fall.

“We will forgive your indiscretion last season, but you must remember there is an abundance of dancers who would kill to take your place.”

 

He swallows. The prickling sensation of shame spans the back of his eyes. 

“I understand.”

“You will audition for Ondine just like everyone else, so the board can be sure you can pull this off. If you cannot or do not, we will of course simply go with the original love triangle and you will remain in the corps, so I suggest that you do. Is this clear?”

“Yes, Madame.”   
  
She stops again, as if assessing whether he truly has understood. Somehow her eyes bore into his more intensely now, though it’s not as aloof as any other time previously.

  
“This is not an opportunity to take lightly, Tomlinson. Things like this don’t happen often, particularly in an institution with as much history as this one. Both the company and the individuals backing this project will definitely take their fair share of heat for this risk, but ultimately praise too. In any case it’s going to be stressful, and we cannot afford to fall flat. Do you understand?”   
  
“Yes, Madame.”   
  
Louis is simultaneously too deep in thought and anxiously waiting for more things to be clear about, and so fails to register her putting her glasses on and shuffling through the papers on her desk as a dismissal. By the time he realises it was meant as such, she lifts her head half an inch, a sweep of acknowledgement before permanently returning to the work before her.   
  


“That's all.”

He leaves the room in a stunned silence, and works on Emeralds in one of the studios in that same state. It continues to keep him up when he gets home, resting his chin on his knees tugged close to his chest, watching through the windows like he might see the wind as much as he hears it.   
  
__  
'That’s all.’   
  
  
So it is. 


	8. 5. Andante con moto

He has the dream again.

This time it’s unmistakably Ondine, every movement of muscle accompanied by a corresponding flirt of diaphanous chiffon, the colour of sea glass. He peaks through the curtains of the waterfall just like he’s supposed to, timid, charming, and follows the passage as if he’s created it himself. He dances well, and he’s surprised that it is so, each step calculated and assured but to the onlooker, simply effortless. Only perfect sequence, flawless technique. Something exquisite.

Subconsciously he’s waiting for it to all go wrong, but it doesn’t. There’s no pain, but there’s no numbness either, and with each step he prepares himself for the surely approaching ache that’ll knock him off his feet. It doesn’t come.

Instead the silence hits so forcefully it almost sounds like something. Nothing like late rehearsals, where it's only echoes of movement in an empty studio. Something else entirely, like the pulsing of life underwater where every sound is multiplied and divided across waves until it’s only a phantom of what it once was.

There's no time to react when the floor mounts layers into layers, and it's like finding friction in a rock pool.

There’s no second incarnation this time, the dream ending abruptly as the stage melts into the waterfall, swallowing him whole.  
  


**  
  


He watches the rain beat against his windows for a couple of minutes in a catatonic state once the initial wave of adrenaline subsides, a calming numbness to wash away what feels like coal brimmed lungs. He takes a sleeping pill and, swallowing it dry, taps an absentminded message to Zayn.

**_can't sleep . Wish i didn't live alone sometimes_ **

And then,

**_don't worry about this when you see it in the morning , I'll be fine_ **

He decides against getting a drink of water to placate his throat.

 

 

 

 


	9. 6a. Adagio

“So what you're saying is,” Niall recounts slowly, like a scholar making grand observations that have the potential to change the world, while also taking up all of the sofa, “they're doing a retro version of The Little Mermaid, and you're the little mermaid…”

Zayn kicks him in the shin, causing the other boy to wail theatrically and flail his limbs. 

“It's a water nymph, there's a difference.” Louis insists, setting down the tea and coffee. He’s indulging himself with proper milk, but it’s just for the sake of appearance. 23.  
“The difference is you don't want to get sued by Disney, my little water nymph…”  
He rolls eyes in response, nudging Niall’s side with his knee to get him to make some room. 

It’s been a lazy day, the type that Louis is not often privy to. He swears he’ll go to the studio later but even  _ he _ can admit he may have taken it a tad too far the day before. Despite plans to revisit Ondine between and after rehearsals, he was drafted to fill in for that night’s performance which, while elevating in its own right, just about tore his thighs to shreds with the turns. He always did struggle with them, so it was both a stellar bit of luck to spend most of the performance in the back - with only him and his partner to witness any mishaps - and a massive wake up call about his own preparation. He’s been slacking, and it stops now.   
  
Or, as soon as Niall and Zayn leave, as they use the bleak weather as an excuse to congregate here, talk shit and (by Niall’s request) cuddle. He wasn't joking either, arms now moulded around Louis’ upper half, the closeness grudgingly tolerated. 

 

“Didn't you do Ondine before?” Zayn muses, mug already in hand. “Name sounds familiar…”    
_ Should do... _

“Eleanor’s--” he’s interrupted by Niall unceremoniously dribbling his coffee back into the cup and making a run to the kitchen, muttering something under his breath about Louis ‘forgetting the sugar again’. “...Eleanor’s dance school showcase. Then again in the Grand Prix.”   
  


“I remember that!” comes a yell, coupled with the clattering of opening and closing cabinets, “God that French guy was a prick, right?”

Louis frowns, turning to watch Niall wrestle with the sugar tin. “What French guy?”

“I don’t know, figured there’d be one.”

“You didn’t even watch it, what would you remember?”

Niall stops to place a hand on his chest, looking positively affronted.   
“My mother threw him a party, Zayn. A  _ party. _ When I got accepted into uni they just invited people over and ate my cake. You don't forget that kind of trauma and betrayal...”

“That sounds like a party, mate,” Zayn reasons.

“Yeah I know what it ‘sounds’ like. It was different.”   
“No, it was definitely a party.”   
“ _ Anyway, _ I don’t hold that against him… anymore. Very proud, all that, can’t wait to make fun of your tights again!”

 

Louis masks a wince with laughter. It wouldn’t sound quite so strained if Zayn had laughed too, instead looking over with careful consideration. 

“How do you feel about it though? Being up for the main role so soon?” he presses, the false casual pretence of it all ridiculous in the current context. Thank god for Niall. 

 

“Like the company could play hard to get any longer, I’m tellin’ you, probably pissin’ themselves thinking Louis’ gonna switch loyalties and leave them,” he falls back onto the couch, roping an arm around Louis, “ain’t no one who dances like our Tommo! Although,” Niall cups the side of Louis’ face, “and I’m sorry to say this man, but now that you’re not head twink anymore... you might actually have to shave...”

“Fuck off,” Louis laughs, following the easy light route Niall has etched and praying Zayn takes the bait. 

 

If only he’d be so lucky...

 

“Louis?”

He takes a long sip of his tea to delay having to entertain this, somewhat in hopes that Zayn will add something else, ideally something that doesn’t require any personal input. When he doesn’t, just waiting patiently for acknowledgement, Louis rations out a frankly tired sigh of, “Zayn.”

“How’d you feel about this?”

“‘M fine. Feel great.” Another sip.  _ Stop talking... _

“Are you going to be okay though?”

“Sure. Why wouldn't I be?” _ Take the hint… _

“Because it's a lot of pressure?”

“I'll be fine. Thanks.”

“I'm just saying, you know what happened last-”

“Nothing happened last time.”

 

He didn't mean to snap. Time to revise. _  
_ He takes a deep breath before backtracking,

 

“You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“You reckon?”

Louis laughs, dry,

“This is pretty premature, even for you. I haven't even got the role yet.”

Zayn sighs, looking down into his mug with solemn resignation.    
“But you will…” 

He laughs again, this time to soften his cutting tone before it betrays him in the end. 

“You say that like its a bad thing. Getting leads in a company I love. In a career field I worked for years to get into.”

“Maybe it is.”   
  
No one says anything for a while. Niall stares into his mug, having avoided eye contact with either of the boys ever since tones dropped from levelled to bordering vicious. He tries to come to a rescue when Louis spits out his retort, purely acidic.   
  
“The fuck do you mean, ‘maybe it is’?”   
“Haha, you guys, all this banter… Hey, you know what my buddy Shawn said--”

“I just mean, playing leads all the time got you here didn't it? If the company knew--”

“The company doesn't need to know.”

“Sorry Louis, but the fact is they should know. They absolutely should fucking know, because what’s going to happen is you’re going to get this lead and go down the same fucking spiral, except this time we might not be so lucky.”

Louis feigns shock, standing to turn around as if he might find that they’ve been in the round this entire time, facing Zayn again with outstretched arms, “Who’s lucky here?”   
He doesn’t take too kindly to the gesture.   
  
“You don’t think you’re lucky right now?”   
“Oh no, of course. Say grace every time I check the absence list and realise I won’t be doing a show that night either. Or the one after that. Or the one after that.”   
“Listen to yourself, yeah? Fucking hear what you’re saying to me right now.”   
Louis steps up on his toes like he’s not towering over him already. “What am I saying?”   
“That after everything it took to get you back to a state where you could actually go back to work, when even  _ that  _ wasn’t guaranteed, you’re complaining that you’re not immediately doing the shit that fucked you up in the first place.”   
“ _ I’m _ complaining? I can’t even tell you there’s a remote chance I could be soloist again without you shitting on it. All this shit about,” he mimics Zayn’s voice for this, “‘ _ so soon, too soon, Louis, take some more time off, waste some more time, Louis _ ’, haven’t you clocked that I can’t afford to wait around like you want me to? That I never wanted to to begin with?”   
Zayn sounds calm in comparison to Louis’ rather argumentative tone, which is only more aggravating.    
“You have a problem, Louis.”   
“Damn right, I fucking do. Sitting right there.”

 

Zayn shakes his head, sinking back into the seat pointed to, a look of pure disappointment. Louis turns to open the window before pulling out his lighter and a pack of cigarettes, Zayn’s, abandoned on the side of the sofa by an immobile Niall, whose look of sincere shell-shock is preserved by the stagnant tension in the room. 

 

“So you're back on that shit too?”

Louis snorts, fiddling with the lighter to get it to give, “coming from you, Zayn…”

“But you stopped. I thought we agreed--.”

“No, Zayn,  _ you _ agreed.” He takes a quick drag in hopes that it calms his nerves somewhat, if not his temper, “I understand why you’d like to think I was involved in that discussion since, technically, it’s only my fucking business, but that’s not been the case for months now. Did the laws change in November? Am I no longer granted autonomy, or is it a short term thing where you think I can’t be responsible for my own fucking self…”

“Can I trust you to be?”

“Can you--” he shakes out a laugh, “I don’t give a fuck! It’s none of your fucking concern, Zayn!”

“Who’s going to be concerned then, Lou? If not me, who’s going to make sure you’re--”

“ _ It doesn’t matter! _ No one asked you to play nanny! You don’t get to tell me what I can or can’t do, or check up on me every fucking moment of the day, and most of all you do  _ not  _ get to shit on my career. I fucking love you Zayn, but you are not--”   
“You think I treat you like this because I fancy it?” Zayn stresses the question, perplexed, standing so that they’re on the same level, as if that emphasises his point. “You’re not in a position to be treated like an adult. You shouldn’t even be back in the company.”   
“Yeah it’s a shame isn’t it. Can’t keep your eye on me every waking moment of every day. Send me to my room. Go on, tell me how  _ disappointed _ you are…”   
“You’re just proving my point. I can’t even have a civilised discussion with you about this without you riling yourself up--”   
  
“Guys, maybe we should--”   
  
“You know what you should do? Give me a curfew! Move back in! Fuck, shadow me at work even! Let’s unscrew the bathroom door so we can really get personal, wouldn’t that be nice? It’s a shame your hourly rate doesn’t apply to the amount of time you spend monitoring every fucking thing I do, then you might actually make your half of the rent for once.”   
  
Louis finds that he’s somehow travelled into a full battle stance in front of him, face barely an inch from Zayn’s, cigarette hand shaking with matching intensity behind his back. Out of the corner of his eye, Niall holds a fist to his mouth and stares straight ahead with bated breath. He’s getting his fight, he thinks, after everything, has the opportunity to really unload after months of biting his tongue. Yet Zayn’s response is, irritatingly, nothing short of cool and collected. Pitying, almost. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply before trying to reel both Louis and the conversation back in.   
  
“This is exactly what I mean. You’re just being hurtful and trying to deflect shit that you find threatening because deep down you know I’m right. You’re not listening.”   
“No, I’ve been listening. Must love you a whole fuck of a lot to tolerate even a minute of this constant fucking babying, let alone _ listen _ to it, for five fucking months...”   
‘Cool and collected’ is only a temporary measure, it seems, Zayn’s tone gradually getting more and more defensive.   
“You’re acting like a brat, Louis, you realise that? This isn’t a school fight, and I’m not against you.”

“No? So you just shit on my career for fun then?”

“I need you to try to see it from my perspective. If it were me--”   
“Yeah, you’d be  _ thrilled _ having me constantly breathing down your neck--

“For fuck’s sake, think about what it was like for us!”   
  
Niall recoils. There’s no holding back now.   
  
“You’re  _ kidding _ …” Louis breathes, watching him with increasingly elated disbelief as Zayn realises what he’s said and sighs, knowing full well that he’s just lost whatever edge he may have had.    
“Louis…”   
“You’re actually fucking kidding me right now…”

“I’m saying if you could for a  _ minute _ think past work, and think about what it was  _ like _ to--”   
“That’s fucking hilarious, mate. This is… wow. Well done, man. Wasn’t that fucking hilarious, Ni?”   
  
He doesn’t respond, only glances at him with a pleading expression, still sunken into his hands. Zayn takes the pause as an opportunity to try to reason, sounding knee-deep in rue as Louis smirks around his cigarette.   
  
“I wish you’d hear yourself, then maybe you’d understand why I have to treat you the way I do...”   
“Do I bring it on myself? Is it my fault? I’m loving this, Zayn, really. You dig yourself such a nice hole.”   
It’s really testing his patience now, clearly, Zayn looking out towards the window like he might just jump out of it, tired from all the sighing and shaking his head.   
  
“I’m not talking to you like this.”   
“Why bother then? If I’m such a fucking burden, why waste your precious time on me?”   
“I don’t know,” he turns back towards him, and Louis is caught by surprise at how livid he looks, “Maybe I fucking care about you, is that so hard to believe?”

His own comebacks are weaker for it, “right, yeah, give me a fucking break…”

“And it'd be nice to know that you cared about us too, because whether you want to admit it or not, this affects us much more than we let on--”

“Yeah, because it's  _ all  _ about you, Zayn. My heart weeps.”

“Don't you ever think about how it made us feel? How it continues to make us feel when you act like this, when you refuse to even acknowledge what happ--”

 

“ _ Nothing fucking happened _ .”

 

Niall twists uncomfortably in his seat. They don't break eye contact as Louis lifts the cigarette to his lips again, taunting, hollowing out his cheeks and rolling his eyes back, blowing out the smoke into the space between them. Zayn shakes his head.

“I can’t… I can’t deal with this right now.”

 

He grabs his coat before Louis can think of a retort, slamming the door on his way out.   
  


Silence falls, and so does Louis’ vision, limited to some flimsy shapes and black spots. He’s been fuzzy for a while, he thinks, but he’s only noticed now that his eyes are burning, head pounding like it's trying to disconnect from his body. He turns to the window to release the smoke from a quicker, panicked drag, one that gets caught somewhere down his throat.

 

 _What a stupid fucking fight. What did you do that for?_ _No wonder everyone leaves you..._

 

The doorbell rings. Niall springs up before Louis even has a chance to recognise it, dashing to the door with purpose and slight terror.    
  
He won’t have come back, not to apologise, not so soon. Maybe he forgot something. Louis pictures a series of possible scenarios, most beginning with a scream of ‘AND ANOTHER THING,’ and none that end well. The potential for further arguments, particularly now that he’s crashed out of his adrenaline-fuelled assertive state, is enough to send him into his own bout of terror, twisting in the pit of his stomach.   
  
Except, two seconds later it’s Harry and not Zayn who is escorted into the living room, eyebrows furrowed intently on Niall's plastered smile, and Louis feels his entire chest cavity empty and then collapse onto the bones and organs below like demolishing a building. He swings right back to the window to process exactly how this has gone ten times worse than he could’ve imagined.

 

“I passed Zayn on my way up is every--”

Niall coughs violently. 

“--one hungry? I brought pastries…”   
  
And yet worse still. That’s all it takes to decide, as Louis shuts the window with more force than necessary, grabbing his bag and the coat hanging underneath its’ straps, and swinging both over his arm to get out of the apartment as soon as physically possible.

“'M going to the studio.”

 

No one protests, but maybe because they don’t have time to; halfway down the first flight of stairs he realises he hadn’t put on any shoes. In the pause to first, criticize himself for doing something so dumb, and second, debate how humiliating it would be to sulk back upstairs to get them, he hears another pair of footsteps, characteristic clicks against the concrete steps of the apartment block.   
  


“Louis?”

 

He tries to dive down another flight, but the zip on the duffle bag swings into the railing at least twice, a metallic cacophony by which Harry speeds up just enough to meet him. It’s very ‘spider and fly’, and so Louis briefly considers carrying all of his stuff in a potato sack from then on in an effort to live the rest of his life in silence. Might even stop him chasing away the last friends he has, or at least slow down the process...

 

“Harry. Hello. Work.”

“You're shivering.” he tells him, as if he doesn’t already know, frowning when he notices the forgetfulness, “And also barefoot.” 

Louis tries to shrug off the next gesture, but as Harry places his coat on his shoulders he can't deny the comforting warmth seeping into his bones. He lifts up his own coat to show him he’s not entirely incompetent though, settling down on the steps to look through his bag.

 

“These are risky moves, you know?”   
“How do you mean?” Harry asks, intrigued, sitting down next to him.   
“One of these days I’m not going to give this back.”   
He laughs, all melody, and that’s even warmer, “Starting to think it looks better on you anyway...”   
  
The bag, other than being filled with several items from that week’s class (which all should have been transferred to the wash by now), produces his own pack of cigarettes and two empty water bottles. He passes the bottles to Harry, then takes out a cigarette for the road, sticking it between his teeth to hold. At the very bottom he finally finds the old pair of trainers he’d hoped for, and Harry takes the bag from him as he ties the laces.   
  
“Can I ask what happened?” he asks, polite but clearly willing approval, and Louis wonders whether he had planned it for the precise moment where his guard might rest.   
“What happened, when?”   
“With Zayn? Looked like you had a fight?”   
“Oh,”  _ no need to sound so snappish, then, _ “Right.”   
  
Louis takes back the bottles, reshuffling the contents of the bag to force them back in, then zips the bag up in hopes it’ll mask the sniff. Just about. He places it on the step above them, bringing his knees up to his chest and tucking the cigarette behind his ear.   
  
“We had, uh. Scheduling differences.”   
“What does that mean?”    
It doesn’t sound like he’s trying to catch him out, but Louis has no intention of taking that for granted. He definitely could have, and should have, come up with something better, if only his head was in the right place.  _ For once. _   
“Zayn doesn’t really get… timetables. Like, how I have to be at work at set times, I don’t make my own schedule like he can… He just doesn’t get that, so.”   
“Ahh… Like a time management thing? He feels like you’re not spending enough time with him?”   
He looks back at him, the neat packaging of the excuse surprisingly convenient considering that he didn’t even really know where he was going with his.   
“Yeah. Something like that.”   
  
With that settled, he takes over before Harry can ask anything else.   
  
“Why are you here anyway?”   
“Oh, I honestly just brought pastries. I spend a lot of time in this bakery nearby and the owners like me so they give me a lot of free samples. Thought I’d share…”   
“‘Course they give you free samples…” Louis rolls his eyes, “Unbelievable.”   
Harry grins, all teeth. “I can run upstairs and get you something?”

“‘M good, thanks.”

“Sure I can't tempt you with a pain au chocolat? A pecan plait? Blueberry muffins?”

“You left all that with Niall? Good luck.”

 

With the less than favourable subjects evaded, he takes the opportunity to admire the long legs draped over the next four steps in front of them, shiny silver boots capping off the end. He raises an eyebrow. Then, without thinking whether it’s appropriate to do so, he tugs up Harry’s jean leg to see the full design, a stripe of red stars trimming an equally metallic blue. 

  
He can’t help but shoot him a look of disdain.   
  


“Do you not have normal shoes?”   
Harry shrugs. “Normal shoes don’t leave an impression. I like to impress.”   
“Who do you have to impress? The bakery owners are clearly already in love with you.”   
“You think?”   
“Sure. Beginning to think it’s some illicit conspiracy. No man is safe.”   
This man, specifically. How many times has Harry wheedled himself into Louis’ meticulously calculated schedule now?   
Harry looks down to smile. “If only…”   
“Not ‘if only’. Think about it. You’re a danger to society.”   
“Sounds like you’re on the case...” he teases his serious tone, nudging him with his shoulder.   
Green headlights. This is exactly what Louis is talking about.   
“Can’t say. But I’ve got my eye on you.”   
“Not complaining, then.”   
  
But he wishes he  _ would _ . Louis’ seen enough to know things like this usually have a quick sell-by date, it’s the  _ coming back _ that’s freaking him out. Coming back to see him and coming back with questions, attention, concern.

 

“How are you doing, by the way? You okay?”   
There’s a gentleness in the way he asks, intimate, like it’s a secret he’s keeping with the part of Louis that might tell him from the part of Louis that still has some sense. Maybe that’s what softens what would otherwise be a bitter cut remark from the latter.   
“Why wouldn’t I be?”   
“I mean, you’re only going to get busier now that,” he stops dead, eyes wider than Louis’ ever seen them. Despite efforts to recover as discreetly as possible, the backpedalling is smeared all over his face.    
  
“Thaaat, you are back. At the company. Employment, so… Just wondering how you are doing… with… the  _ workload _ ...”   
He might actually see him break a sweat. Louis narrows his eyes, the edge of a smile.    
“You knew about Ondine?”   
The effect is immediate, Harry clasping a hand over his forehead, knocking his head back as relief washes over him   
“Thank  _ fuck _ , I didn’t know how I’d be able to keep it secret… Thought, soon as I saw you again…”   
  
It makes much more sense now, why he’d be interested in him in the first place. Scandalous flight risk mystery is one thing, but controversial soloist casting? Priceless. Liam must’ve made the entire process easier, grounded it in commonality, but it’s Louis’ fault for accepting everything at face value. Not questioning, allowing this familiarity.   
  
There’s no use even being disappointed. He should’ve known better in the first place.   
“Guess you couldn’t say.”   
“I really wanted to, just… Are you excited now? That you know?”

Not exactly a schmoozing mastermind, Harry sounds much more like an eager child than anything else, animated and hopeful, though Louis supposes that’s part of it. He answers with cool measure, “I’m hesitant.”    
Harry cocks his head curiously.

“Why all the doubt?”

  
He can’t lie about this. It’s too deep-set to cover up, so, simplified, he confides,   
“Ondine and I have history. I want to do it right.”

Harry nods thoughtfully, “I guess that’s fair. I have something like that,” and continues, unprompted, unbothered that Louis is watching him in confused reverence.    
  
“There’s this place, where I used to live.  I’d go there as a kid just to walk around, have some peace, and when I got into photography I’d go all the time trying to capture it, that feeling, so I could keep it with me. It’s really beautiful, breathtaking to me, but it doesn’t look like much in photos. It just looks like… a place, but it’s so much more than that. I think it’s the experience of being there. Feeling like home.” He takes a second to shake his head along with the insecurity. “That’s what I’d like to get right. A photo of that place, where it’s more than a place. If they’re comparable...”

Louis smiles feebly, conceding, “Sounds about right.”

“You know what that means, right?” Harry leans towards him, the side of his mouth already a giveaway of some brazen plan, and one Louis can’t quite keep his eyes off of. He repeats the question back dumbly.   
“What does it mean?”   
  
“ _ You’ve _ got to get that role and  _ I’ve _ got to take that picture!” Harry declares, sloping back into a self-satisfied smirk and leaving Louis a little dumbstruck in the space between them. “We do them  _ both _ right!”   
Not the direction he thought this was going. He mulls it over slowly.

“That… sounds like a challenge.”

“I had the feeling you’d like a challenge more than me just telling you it’s going to be fine. Even though it is. Going to be fine, I mean.”

  
With the distraction gone, Louis is certain he’s just blindly followed into another one of these niceties, the very kind he’s worked so hard to absolve himself of and the very kind he wants to keep walking into as long as they involve Harry, dealing with the sickly honey warm sensation of caving in, the worrying implications of Harry’s  _ ‘feeling’ _ being right...    
  
He’s right.  _ Why is he right? _

 

“Sorry I’ve, work,” Louis springs to his feet, feeling for his bag and trying to offer a remotely put-together explanation as his vision recalibrates. “Got work. Have to, to go.” Harry stands in tandem.

“You sure you don't want to get anything for the road? It's a mean almond croissant up there…”   
“Got my, um. My audition, to work on. Needs work.”   
“Okay. Let me know how it goes?”   
  


Louis hands Harry’s coat back reluctantly, the lost weight all too satisfying, only now the cold of the stairwell resonates properly, making his joints ache like abandoned machinery. It really is so dramatic bearing in mind how much worse it could be. He forgets to answer him.

 

“I'll see you later.”

“Soon. I’m looking forward to it.”

 

Harry smiles, wide and genuine.

 

And it bloody hurts. And Louis doesn’t want to think about why. 

  
  
  



	10. 6b. Vivace

Audition day rolls around much faster than Louis would like, but after a lifetime of them he knows how imperative it is to account for just that; the strange phenomenon of time’s quickening pace as soon as there’s a looming date overhead. No arguments, no mistakes, no  _ Harry _ , absolutely nothing to unsettle him any more than the prospect of fucking this shot up already does. Manage that, and he’s got a chance.   
  
Class chatter has been primarily focused on the new show, which is expected, but the mounting number of people invading the tiny upstairs studio Louis works in over breaks is irritating to say the least. It would be one thing if they’d just stick to their spot and prepare in silence, but too many come in groups and spend the majority of the time laughing, and giggling, and lending mutually-exclusive advice amongst themselves. He wonders whether the famous self-discipline necessary for ballet was implemented for this purpose exactly, because had it not been for that particular training he’s not sure he would have been able to stay quiet.   
  
Unfortunately even that gets taken away from him as Eleanor marches into the room, seemingly with a specific mission to locate and eliminate Louis before he can even make it down for his slot. She towers over him as he sits cross-legged, rehydrating in between run-throughs. Since the jumps didn’t kill him, maybe she’s here to do it?   
  
“You’re up for Ondine?”    
He looks up slowly at the accusation, replacing the cap on his water bottle.   
“Apparently.”   
“No.  _ Way. _ ” she folds her arms, a frown set even deeper, “What’d you do?”   
What _ did _ he do? “Nothing. Madame just called me in.”   
“Is she crazy?”   
“Yep.”   
  
She slumps down beside him despite a puzzled look of objection, taking his bottle to steal a sip. Rude. Maybe that’s the plan, contaminate the water with poison, knock him out before he can embarrass himself at the audition. In that case though, she might be doing him a favour more than herself.   
  
“Are you freaked?” she demands without turning to face him.    
It’s an intentional power play that way as she scans the room sulkily for what might be more viable competition, so Louis pretends to have to think it through, providing a shrugged, “I don't know,” when she finally graces a look at him. 

She scoffs. 

 

He wishes he was lying, but truthfully he’s been mostly numb the past two days, both physically and mentally. In fact, it took Niall grabbing his hand away from the spout of the kettle to get him to realise the extent to which that’s been the case. Even if he wanted to delve into how he feels about all of this (which, mind, is the last thing he wants or needs), that information is strictly guarded, and for the best. There’s been enough entertaining wants lately as it is, and more importantly, his tendons fucking hurt. His priorities definitely lie there.

  
“They’re mental,” she shakes her head, disconcerted, “Ondine is...”   
“Yep.”   
“You wouldn’t...”   
“Mhm.”   
She searches for another half-formed thought before seemingly deciding that it’s beneath her, up on her feet with a huffed, “fine.” Before she leaves though, she hesitates, turning on her heel with the begrudging decision to pause her sulk.   
  


“You better be good, if you get it.”   
“I know.”   
She accepts it, noting, “Good.” with a stiff nod, then, out of stubborn custom and perhaps to be genuinely reassured, “Merde.”   
It’s a surprise hearing it again, so much so that he considers thanking her for it. Instead, he returns it swiftly before she can mistake his smile for mocking.   
“Merde.”   
  
If only that’d be the end of it.

 

**   
  
“So, Ondine! Crazy, huh?”    
Danielle slides along the wall to join him outside the studio they’ve delegated for auditions. With approximately ten minutes before he’s called, he might look mildly insane scowling down at his feet and miming the steps, which is one of a number of things that work to avert any more interactions like this one. Yet she remains undeterred, watching him for a while, hand against her collarbone, before pointing at his left foot.   
  
“That foot’s weaker, you should…” she trails off, swapping out the instinctive instructional tone to her usual, conversational one. “Sorry. I wanted to see how you were doing.”   
“You’ve seen, then. Weaker.”   
She tries again. “Shouldn’t they let you do it on demi-pointe at least?”   
Louis raises an eyebrow, his mumbling replies steering into sardonic territory.    
“Wouldn’t be doing the show on  _ demi _ -pointe, would I?”   
“They would’ve accommodated, if Madame’s asking for you  _ specifically _ ...”   
“Sure.”   
  
Danielle looks down at her own feet, then back to his face, turning so that she faces him straight-on rather than shoulder to shoulder.    
“We never got to catch up...” she muses, a change of approach. She sounds pleasant enough to mask a slight hurt, as if she’d been rejected or shunned. “I was hoping you’d hold me to that...”   
Louis sighs. “I don’t--”   
“I’m just saying, it’d be nice to hear from you,” she reassures before asking for the same, “I’d like to think you consider me a friend. Do you?”   
“Look, the audition--”   
“Right, yeah. No of course,” she smiles brilliantly, and it reminds Louis of Harry a little. Nothing alike, but it cues thoughts of him all the same. “I’ll see you out the other side then!”   
“Sure.”   
  
He can’t seem to escape that. Everything’s out to set him off, it seems, reminding him, making him think about stupid things he didn’t know he remembered in the first place, and… It’s ridiculous. There’s a reason he doesn’t do this, and there’s even more reason to leave this new venture well fucking alone, especially now when he’s got less than _ ten _ minutes before his audition.    
  
_ You don’t exist. Nothing exists, except for this. Focus. _ _   
_ __   
But Danielle starts to leave and it harks back to the last time he had a chance to say something, and he thinks about Harry and how easy it is to say shit he shouldn’t say to him, and before he can stop himself and go back to footwork he mumbles, barely audible,

 

“I’m sorry, Danielle.”   
  
She turns back.    
  
“Did you say something?”   
_ No. No you didn’t.  _ He struggles to say anything either way, but as she steps back closer to him with patient curiosity it’s clear that there’s blood in the water.  _ Fucking idiot. _   
“I’m… sorry. About Sylvia.”   
“What about…” Danielle frowns, confused, before laughing him off as if he’d suggested some ludicrous concept. “Oh no, don’t be silly, you fell further than I did!” She rubs his arm affectionately, looking at him with a matching comforting smile in her eyes. “Back on it now, though, aren’t you?”   
  
  
“You’re up, mate.”   
  


He feels Eleanor breeze past them, a pleased smirk followed by a draft of undoubtedly expensive perfume.  _ Great.  _ It must have gone well, which only strengthens the case against him landing it. Madame’s intentions aside, there’s still a whole board to convince, starting now. Eleanor, with both superior training and far more pointe experience, is fundamentally incomparable to him and whatever shit he can pull together now. He’s seen her Ondine, he’s  _ danced _ with her Ondine, and if he were judging these auditions right now, he wouldn’t dream of taking a risk over her rendition.   
  
Danielle breaks away with a departing pat, and Louis finds himself rooted to the ground. It was meant to be relief. Everyone fucking said he’d be relieved. Why the fuck did he have to bring it up now?   
  
_ It doesn’t exist. Nothing exists. Just this. _

 

There’s no point trying to breathe properly, not while crossing the threshold and certainly not coming to face the panel, each wrapped in careful thought, scribbling scalding yet constructive remarks on worn clipboards. Here he can only afford short and shallow. Anything that might actually fill his lungs up may also collapse them.   
  
“Tomlinson.”   
  
When he first started he used to get scared about this part. Jay would take him to auditions and make him laugh on the way, until he wasn’t, maybe a bit giggly but otherwise confident. If he didn’t make it, she’d make him laugh even harder on the way back, prodding fun at the judges until he’d forget who was originally supposed to be judged.    
  
He stopped asking her to come when she got too busy with everyone else. By that time he wasn’t scared, or at least knew what to do to convince himself he wasn’t, and had worked out new, less childish techniques for getting over the failures. Yet even when he knew he’d have it, he’d still scan the panel, note the things she would’ve pointed out, and hold onto them just in case he’d have to turn the tables on the way home.    
  
Tradition. Even if she wasn’t there to do it with him.   
  
But the difference is, he knows this panel. This panel knows him, outside of whatever he presents today, have witnessed his weaknesses firsthand and taken chances on him before, albeit none like this, and none after such a massive break. If he fails here, he doesn’t get to go home and talk shit and never see them again. He comes back to risk failing again. Here there are no doubts about who is judging who.   
  
The Madame sits perched at the end, reading glasses loosely balanced in her hand. She twists her other wrist to check the time, glancing up just as Louis grits his jaw, faces them head-on. He thinks for a second he might’ve seen her start to smirk, but it vanishes as she seeks confirmation from the pianist, who turns to the beginning of the score. The pianist nods. Madame turns back to Louis.   
  


“Whenever you’re ready.” 

 

He takes what feels like his final breath.   
  


 

**   
  
The thing about Ondine is she’s lithe, this little creature made up of smaller complex parts, but she flows like water, like a dream, like life personified. Frivolous but flighty, flirty, with more flight than the air above her, and she’s fearless just as she’s fearful, cautious wandering looks from curtains that keep her purity and innocence hidden away from the horrors of the human world.    
  
So he emulates exactly that, light steps and fluid movement, all lighthearted charm. Thoughts of all of his plaguing dreams intrude but he pushes them away, dulled pangs of pain no distraction at this point. This is far,  _ far  _ too important. Just steps with no seams, flowing out of him like water itself, this choreographed dream elegantly stitched to the exquisite melodies offered by the piano. This is it, the only part of his life where he is truly worth something, where he can be beautiful, and powerful, and perfect, where he can remember that living is something you’re supposed to want to do.   
  
But he misses a step, maybe miscalculating the physics or just lost in the performance, and it’s like he’s in one of those dreams again as everything crashes down around him, enveloping the rest of the sequence so that he feels each sheen of sweat, each fibre of muscle dance his way, to his design, and it’s oppressive, the way he could drop to the ground from feeling everything at once, hyper aware of every atom that adds up to him in this empty, hollow space. And although the rest is just right, it’s difficult to tell whether it’s because of or despite the excessive stimulation, which is louder than any praise.

 

Madame says something when he’s finished, impassive, and he takes it as dismissal. Surrounded by heavy underwater silence, punctuated only by his heart stuttering, he allows himself to recognise the thrumming panic as soon as he makes it back out into the corridor. It carries him to the upstairs studio room where, with a series of curious looks from a group of corps dancers, he rehearses the audition piece again, and again, and again, until it’s in his bloodstream.

  
**   
  
Hardly anyone’s around by the time he leaves, so there’s no witness to how long it takes him to get down the stairs. Too long. He signs out with cursive initials, taking a break at the door as if it might recover some strength for the journey home (it doesn’t) and pushes himself into it, bag first. It gives in with a creak, and with a quick wave to security he slips out, only to be greeted by an expecting figure pacing the area, stomping out a recently lit cigarette.    
  
_ Motherfucker. _   
  
The closing door gives him away before he can even consider an attempt to escape undetected, Zayn glancing briefly in the direction of the sound, then settling on his face once he realises it’s actually Louis. Meaning for his own greeting to sting, it comes out weak and defeated.   
  
“What, you were in the neighbourhood?”   
“How long have you been here?”   
  
Louis is torn. First and foremost, he wants to knock his teeth out. He’s hit with the idea so suddenly that it genuinely startles him, that maybe he would if he had any strength left in his arms or even if they weren’t sitting side by side, then he could at least attempt a blow. But the second feeling is worse, because it stings his eyes, brimming with some awful display, and his already aching chest rises rapidly to match the hysterical rush of the thoughts he can still manage to scramble together.   
  
He doesn’t get to look so worried. Doesn’t get to come here, try to face-off, and then drop it to look  _ worried _ , doesn’t get to...   
  
“Shh, I’m sorry,” Zayn is mumbling then, wrapping his arms around Louis’ shoulders as he pulls him in. He would protest, wants to protest, but he can hear himself whimper and at least Zayn’s jacket muffles the sound, taking the full brunt of his pathetic little breakdown as he heaves the occasional raw sob. Eventually it withers out, as all things must, and Louis pulls away brashly, dragging his knuckles over his eyes, which burn hot against the stark cold air. Zayn lets him keep his distance, speaking in a firm but gentle tone.   
  
“Get you on a train, yeah?   
  
He doesn’t have much of a choice, but at least he doesn’t have to think about safety or directions on the way there, at full liberty to concentrate on preventing any further episodes while Zayn’s still hanging by his side.   
  
Uncalled for. Just to show up, and bear witness to an anomalous weak point when Louis’ been doing just fine every other day, just today that’s been hard. He can already hear the ‘told you so’s, the gloating...   
  
He runs that same script over and over until he feels himself getting agitated again, from being parked on a bench at the station to folded into a train seat to being led down to his apartment block, where he’s too distracted to complain about using the lift. In the apartment, Zayn passes him clothes to change into, but lets him sit at the table, clutching them to his chest as he watches him make the tea. Wrong spoon. Louis might just drink half, to be safe.   
  
The silence is numbing but at least this one feels real, and it gives plenty room for Louis to register exactly how much his head is throbbing, a sort of safety net for broaching real sensations in his own time. He’s hardly ready to relinquish it, after everything, but  _ that’s _ taken away from him too.   
  
“I know your job means a lot to you.” Zayn states, stoic, setting down the two mugs in front of him, purposefully ignoring Louis’ glare at reopening this topic. “I know that you feel like it’s all you have and it’s all that matters...”   
  
He sits at the table but doesn’t meet his eyes, focused instead at the kitchen counter to the side of them. “I know it’s always going to come first. It’s not that… I don’t want you to think I want to change that, I just… I need you to know that you also have us, Lou. Whatever happens at work, however you think you’re doing, it doesn’t matter to us.  _ You _ matter to us. We just...”   
  
Louis watches him cautiously, drawing up his knee to his chin as if it’s a weapon Zayn might snap at. He does anyway, finally returning the stare with tired but frank intensity.   
  
“ _ I _ … struggle sometimes, believing that I matter to you too. And for me…” a moment of weakness, Louis swears, where Zayn looks like he might crack too, but he passes it off with a frustrated sniff and huff, keeping his voice level.    
  
“You don’t have to do any of this to matter to me.”   
  
He gestures vaguely to the space between them. The space to reply.    
  
Louis proceeds carefully, his first contribution what he thinks Zayn wants to hear.   
“I shouldn’t have...”    
He leaves it open, but Zayn snaps it shut.   
“I know.”   
Irritated, “Yeah, but--”   
“It was a stupid fight. And you were right, if it was me, I… I wouldn’t want to be treated like I’ve treated you.”   
  
_ Oh. _   
  
“I forget. That this is what you have, what you live for. It’s easy for me to tell you how to do shit when this isn’t my lifeblood. I know that’s no excuse but it’s been my job to worry about you lot as long as I’ve known you and especially now…” he doesn’t finish, knowingly teetering on another argument, but meets his eyes again.   
  
“I just want you to be okay.”   
Louis nods. Then, reaching for the tea peace offering,    
“I’m okay.”   
  
Zayn holds his gaze for a beat too long. A beat, and he gives in. It doesn’t feel good winning this time.   
  
“Now that that’s settled… Mind if I crash here?”   
Is the next thing he says, just as Louis has the audacity to relax in his own home, watching him with posed neutrality. Faux casual, like one of their phone calls. Louis tries to keep the disdain from his voice.   
“Sure.”   
“I’ll take the couch, then.”   
Does he really sound amused or is Louis looking for any trace of a reason to swing at him? Probably the latter, but the possibility remains. He bites his tongue and again, with even more strain,   
“Fine. That’s great. I’m gonna go shower.”   
“Louis?”   
  
He stops, hands fisted around the clothes he’d been given. Zayn looks at the counters again, his own fist propping up his head, the other hand wrapped around his mug.   
  
“Niall’s dead-on about them being dependent on you. Whatever happened, whatever you think you did…” he meets his eyes, gentle, and Louis tries not to react too drastically to it.    
  
“You’ll always be the one they begged to come back. You’ll always be the one who they want to change a whole ballet for.”   
  
Louis nods. Zayn returns to the counter.   
  
In the bathroom, he stands himself off in the mirror for just long enough that he might have actually undressed. Then, turning the shower on, he makes little effort to keep it down.   
  
  



	11. 7. Vivace assai

It's just about 3am when Louis’ phone starts buzzing incessantly, cold blue light illuminating the room from dresser height up. He doesn't mind, not really, since he hasn't slept properly for the past two days anyway. 

Usually he tries harder with performances and rehearsals to inadequately rest for, but now he can unashamedly admit that he doesn't really care. He takes a shower around 11, fumbling with soaps and lotions that smell like lavender (Jay swears by its relaxing properties) until he can climb into his warmest, largest sweatshirt and lies flat, eyes blankly open until 4am rolls by and he has to get up for another day. Sometimes he dozes off, but then arises the dream issue, and that’s far more exhausting than the alternative sleepless night. 

Which is why he doesn't mind, squinting at the multiple texts Harry's decided to send him, glasses abandoned god-knows-where but long past the time for contacts. 

 

_ You know how I told you about my boss ? His exhibitions going up this weekend and I'll b  there!! _

 

_ Not me lik  my work _

 

_ Like I'll be there too but I mean my work will be shown _

 

_ Thought you might be interested since I'll be working with you soon!! _

 

_ You the ballet company** _

 

_ And we're kind of friends now? So support and constructive criticism much appreciated fellow artist :) _

 

_ Oh shit it's late bet I o k you up _

 

_ Woke** _

 

_ Fucked it up proper now I'm a right knob _

 

_ Oh and if you like biit zayn and Niall too, I don't have thei numb Rd but maybe they'd be interested  _

 

_ There's free drinks and nibbles which means like trig angles cut out of shrimp etc _

 

_ Sorry goodnight Louis let me know what you think in th  morning x _

 

And just when it feels like it might be the end,

 

_ Sorry again! Venue is next to Tate modern, shouldn't have trouble finding it but i can send you postcode directions if you need _

 

_ Goodnight for real now _

 

_ x _

 

Louis’ eyes hover over the last x, in half a mind to respond. He needs to think about it though, remind himself that any rushed response may be binding…

But one side of him knows that however much he wants to go he won’t ever let himself have the privilege. Maybe binding is how it works, maybe he needs to exploit the anxiety that comes with cancelling plans so that he can actually do all these things he wants but doesn’t deserve...

He clears what's left of his throat and carefully taps out,

**_Will be there x_ **

and after pausing to ponder, sends the message without the x. 


	12. 8. Andante

This is shaping up to be one of Louis’ worse mistakes.  
  
It was his own fault, really, having spent the entire Jewels show run trying to convince himself he wouldn't be set back if he didn't get an opportunity to perform. In the end he performed once, watched the final night from the same spot backstage he had watched from every other performance. Pathetic. That night, he stopped by Tesco's, and vaguely remembered his downstairs neighbour helped him up with the bags, saying something about a party he was throwing. Louis thought it weird not to hear any music. He was still in the bathroom when his alarm rang to wake him up for work the next day, and more dauntingly, the photography exhibition Harry invited him and all two of his friends to. It all stank of doom. Or maybe that was just him.

His second fault was the failure to account for Zayn’s superficial helpfulness post-reconciliation, which entailed meeting up with Louis before heading to the event and bringing him the change of clothes Louis had forgotten in the rush to get to work. Except, Zayn showed up early for the first time in maybe seven years, sending a series of uncharacteristically persistent ‘i’m here!’ texts in time with Louis swilling and spitting water in the sink. Then, when Louis had jogged down to get the clothes and back up to the changing rooms, he realised it wasn’t what he’d requested anyway, his old size wrapping around him too tight, too close to the sporadic thudding of his chest, too taut around his thighs.  
  
He should’ve done it himself. Or been more specific. When he first came home he didn’t even think to throw out his old clothes, because there was no intention of them staying old for long. But ‘progress’ was appeasing a new wardrobe, even if it was mostly tracksuits, and he had it all delivered. He hadn’t considered he might need to dress any other way sooner than he’d return to his old routine.  
  
“This wasn’t it,” he hisses when they head out, stopping Zayn’s no doubt riveting musing about buses. He frowns.  
“You said black dress shirt, black trousers. Is that… charcoal?”  
“It wasn’t this one.”  
“Oh.” Louis thinks he’s about to get annoyed, but he lets it go, “Okay, my bad.”  
  
They trod in silence, Louis shifting uncomfortably with every step. Zayn watches him fiddle with the clasps on his coat for the whole four minutes they have to wait for their bus, granting a nod to the silent request as they get on and stand the whole way.  
  
“You look fine, though,” Zayn says glancing up from his feigned phone interaction. Louis twitches his head curtly, as though unsuccessfully forcing a nod, and continues to look out at the lights, wedged into the corner with his arms folded across his chest.  
  
They’re almost calming, he thinks, and the longer he stares at them the more readily he believes it. The unrest pangs back with each cluttering stop, so he has to keep watching the white blur and focus against the dark contours of buildings, feeling any accumulated trace of comfort sift down the drain.  
  
As soon as they step into the venue he’s hit with more panic, convinced that he might start heaving at any moment with everyone passing scanning glances of judgement as they’re led to the cloakroom. They take his coat. He feels like he might throw up if he opens his mouth to protest. Zayn cuts in politely then, leading them off to the side where Louis grasps onto a curtain as if for dear life.  
  
“Let me try get a hold of Niall…” Zayn mutters, slipping off his leather jacket and setting it down on Louis’ shoulders, “Take a look at that, yeah?”  
  
He gestures to the floor length photographs donning the surrounding walls. Candid images of people smiling, arguing, embracing, shot in black and white, each with a corresponding plaque that names the responsible artist. Louis’ lifeline curtain separates these from another section, so naturally he peeks past as soon as he’s regained some composure, hitched breath gradually more controlled as the weight of the jacket grounds him. He focuses on the grainy texture of print on canvas for far too long before realising that he’s staring at a massive photo of a younger Harry, at which he jerks back, flinging the curtain away from him and grabbing Zayn’s arm for stability.  
  
“Heads up,” Zayn warns, “Harry’s right there.”  
Louis decides rolling his eyes is a worthy energy expense. “I know.”  
Except his blood stills at the cheery exclamation that greets him a second later, hit with the cold understanding that he did not, in fact, know.  
  
“You came!” Harry grins all giddy, even when they fumble over whether to shake hands or hug or whatever it is that people do these days, eventually settling on an awkward mixture of the two, where Louis’ hand - still connected to Zayn’s arm - sticks outward. Harry’s arms envelope the rest of him so much that he feels shielded from the eyes, so much so that he manages to untense a little in the embrace, breathing a barely audible, “Hi.” as Harry lets go.

“And Zayn, hello, we’ve met!”  
  
Louis senses this may be a natural moment to disconnect, relatively unnoticed as they shake hands, hearing only some garbled pleasantries as everything around him mellows out to a distant, shapeless scene. Foreign. The photos on the walls fall formless, and Louis forgets what they originally depicted, eyes drawn instead to the clean lines of Harry’s suit. When he’s in focus it fits him so well, and Louis can’t help but loathe him a little for that, though the contrast of sharp seams and softly curled hair is lost otherwise. Maybe it’s easier to see it that way...

  
“I never did decide whether to go to art school or not, how was it for you?”  
“Art at uni? It was okay, staff was good. We had to smoke a lot of weed to get any good ideas in time for assessments, though.”

  
He feels himself sway backwards and Zayn’s hand stiffens to support him accordingly, Harry following the movement like clockwork. Louis swears he sees his smile falter ever so slightly, but it’s reinstated by the time he meets Zayn’s eyes again and Louis realises half a conversation has passed.

 

“No, sure, just come by the shop. Have a chat or, whatever.”  
“Cool, that’d be great! Louis said you were close, so--”  
“So a primary source for dirt, I get it. Yeah man, love to chat shit about him, anytime.”

  
He hears them selectively, he realises, the shift in clarity transparent as Harry laughs. He knows that they’re next to him and yet underwater, but that doesn't make sit right with him either. Then the fingers attached to joints attached to Zayn’s hand give Louis a gentle tap and it’s like he’s being dragged out of the ocean by his hair.  
  
“What?”  
Harry frowns a little as he backtracks, eyeing Louis with intense closeness. “I was saying, we should all get together sometime... Like before, clubbing, or… Or something…”  
He _is_ remarkably good-looking, Louis thinks, and observes the details of his expression as if excavating some new specimen, the likes of which he’s never seen before. It doesn’t particularly matter that he has (or must have, since he wouldn’t be able to remember now anyway), nor that he must look a fool staring back at him as they all stand in patient silence, but rather that he’s here at all. That now Harry’s putting up with him yet again, with what looks more like concern than annoyance. It doesn’t add up.  
  
“I’m sure you’ll be roped in next time,” Zayn chimes in when the pause drags on too long for comfort, all effort to draw attention away from the fact that Louis might as well be catatonic. “Niall’s always planning something…”  
  
The snarky remark seems to immediately summon him behind them, jovially swinging one arm around Harry’s shoulders and the other around Louis.  
“Lads! I heard my name.”  
Zayn glares at him despite clear relief now that someone else can carry the conversation. “Where were you?”  
“Networking! You have no idea how highly people think of you when you act like you know shit about art. Couldn’t get away from them asking my opinion about some ugly pier you’d get as a default desktop background...” he stops dead when Harry glances back, mildly uncomfortable, “Oh my bad, man, was that yours?”  
“No that’s um… That’s Ben’s…”  
“Great, haven’t met a Ben yet!” Niall thumps him on the back with another grin before turning to Louis, “Someone asked about you when I was back there, by the way, about ballet, though, not the pier, it was…” he scans the room with a hum, waving wildly once he locates whoever he’s looking for. “Taylor, over here! This is Tay--”

Louis might have turned around if he hadn’t seen it on Harry’s face first, which drops to a telling iration, then to a purposefully stoic demeanor, neither of which he recognises as something that could belong to him. It’s so forceful he can’t bring himself to look away, so he barely acknowledges the tall, leggy woman who approaches them, a perfectly manicured hand easily curling around Harry’s shoulder where Niall let go.  
  
_Oh._

 

“I would’ve expected Harry to introduce us, since he’s practically hosting, but here I am taking matters into my own hands,” she holds out one in Zayn’s direction, “I’m Taylor.”

 

Louis takes the opportunity to study her as introductions echo back and forth. Gentle blonde ringlets form an artfully messy bob, and her tight frame is wrapped in a two piece well worth a runway. He looks back to Harry in hopes he might lend some -  any - explanation before it’s Louis’ turn to greet her, but he’s met with refusal, stuck on cold, unusually unresponsive green even once the handshake is in motion and he has to grace Taylor with his automatic formal response.

 

“Louis Tomlinson.”  
She gasps, but in that practiced way without the shock and all the intentions of flattering recognition,

“ _The_ Louis Tomlinson? Oh love, get ready for me to steal you for myself tonight, a little birdie told me _all about_ your Odette gig,” she turns to the others with exaggerated excitement, “can you _believe_ the Royal Ballet is pulling a gender switch on _Swan Lake, the_ most iconic ballet in history?”

Harry intentionally averts his gaze then, making it Louis’ turn to glare, audible in the way he corrects her.  
“Ondine.”

Her squinty eyes get a little squintier, “sorry?”

Louis finally meets them, “We're doing Ondine. Different ballet.”

“Oh. Well you must still be honoured, first male Ondine!”  
He glances back at Harry, who looks far more familiar sheepish.  
“Yeah.”

 

Taylor blinks expectantly, a shade too pleasant for someone who is quite obtusely being blanked. Harry seems like he might be about to interject when she switches the subject.  
  
“Harry failed to mention how good looking his friends are, I mean, you are _gorgeous._ You could cut someone with those cheekbones, I'm so jealous. And those _eyelashes_ , I can see why they’d pick _you_ …”

She’s mocking him, he’s sure of it. That must be why they’re all looking. He feels his face burn and throat dry up but Zayn is quick to the rescue.  
“So what did you say you do, Taylor?”  
“I’m a writer. That's how Harry and I met, actually, he took photos for an article I did… which actually gives me an idea, I should write an article about you, Louis!”

 

He raises his head in alarm, Zayn instinctively closing his hand tighter on his arm.

 

“I mean it's so obvious, we've got such a good rapport already,” she gestures wildly, dangerously close to accidentally clawing a baffled Harry, “and naturally there'd be accompanying photos, I’m loving this hot leather look but I’m thinking nude, high contrast set...”

“Taylor.” Harry says, or Louis thinks he does, because he barely recognises it like this, gravelly and warning, and he holds onto it like a life raft so he can’t process what’s actually  being discussed.

“... Get whoever’s playing Odette's prince to come too, get some kissing shots, really dramatic imagery, especially with what's happening in America I mean I would never--”

“ _Taylor_.” Warning. Louis wonders why it feels like he’s treading water when before he could just let himself sink.

“Oh Harry I know you'd like him all for yourself but once we put him in the magazines he's fair game. _Please_ tell me you're at least bi, sweetie…”

“TAYLOR.”

 

He’s choking now, and there’s no life raft. Harry looks all kinds of dangerous and the tension is only amplified by the dead silence, everyone else in the venue curiously observing this new live exhibit. He needs to get out.

 

“Excuse me,” he manages to say, breaking free from Zayn’s grasp before Taylor can prepare a response. His head thrums with the deafening sound of his heartbeat but he's able to travel to the other end of the exhibition space, finding that the further away he gets the more he’s able to breathe, however shallow he starts.  
  
_You shouldn’t be here. You should never have come._  
  
He shakily accepts what looks like a rum and coke from a passing waiter, swigging it down before he can remember the number.

 

***

 

It’s Niall who finds him a couple of drinks later, kindly provided by a very nice waiter who has yet to question why Louis is slumped in the corner, glaring and occasionally sniffling at a print of what is unmistakably Harry’s chest. He looks at Louis, then the canvas, then back at Louis, stealing the next drink brought around and sidling next to him on the floor.

 

“You’re here!” He trills happily, nudging Louis’ shoulder with his own like it might be comforting, though it's likely an accident. Louis smiles back. He’s starting to feel the good kind of numb, the noise in his head gone dimmer.

“I am.”

 

Were he in a clearer headspace, he would demand to speak to whoever organised the layout of the gallery, since having to see this particular photo _after_ getting annoyed with Harry may have been the most tragic part of the whole evening. He’s tried to convince himself it wasn’t Harry, but he’s devoted too much time to watching him speak to not recognise the lips, barely pursed, barely in frame, his hair damp, clinging to bare, wet skin. Even if he hadn’t, the cross gives it away, shiny silver crowning a tattooed butterfly. The fact that anyone would choose it to occupy the most distant corner of the space is almost more abhorrent than the fact he can’t bear to look away, obsessively scanning every inch of the print. Better that than replaying what Taylor said, though.  
  
“Nice!” Niall exclaims, setting down a now empty glass, “That Harry?”  
“Mhm.”  
“Now _that’s_ no default desktop background. That’s a custom boyfriend boyfriend one...”  
  
He nudges him again, this time with a very intentional wink. When Louis doesn’t react, Niall permits him the next drink the waiter delivers.

  
“I’m sorry for bringing Taylor over, that got really weird really fast.”  
“My fault, innit.”  
“Nah, don’t think so. Harry says sorry, so maybe it’s his.”

 _Maybe it is._  
Louis sighs. He can still feel the neural connections in his head hardly placated, can hear all of the muted panic despite the sloshing of alcohol. He finishes his drink, and shares what he thinks would be the most compassionate stance despite firmly opposing it.

“Harry doesn't need to apologise.”

“He did. Zayn is also worried but I'm not supposed to tell you.”

“Why?”

“Because he's letting you be an adult and do what you need. But also he's there if you want him.”

“Oh.”

“But I can't tell you. Sorry.”

“Okay.”  
  
He continues to stare, which Niall tries to tolerate before deciding it’s not his style, grabbing Louis’ focus with the most accusatory tone he can manage.  
“Did he promise you triangle shrimp?”  
“What?”  
“When he texted about the event, he promised me triangle shrimp. Are you in cahoots with him?”  
“Ni, I don’t know anything about shrimp.”  
“Sticks up his Grindr torso picture and thinks the job is done. _Unbelievable_...”

“Shhh…” Louis frowns, taking another look at the photo, “It’s nice.”  
  
Niall looks at him like he’s being ridiculous, so he must be. “We deserve better than this. Some real art!”  
He takes his hand without really thinking, wobbling a bit once they’re both standing.  
“Do we?”  
“I’ll show you, it’ll be fun. Grab your coat.”  
“Got Zayn’s…” he notes, slightly confused by this fact. He’s even more confused when Niall grins, roping him into a quick half-hug.  
“Even better.”

***

 

“What'd you think… that... is?”

“Ugly.”

 

The boys dissolve once again into snorts (Niall) and giggles (Louis), collapsing onto each other in a struggle to stay upright as late night visitors throw dirty looks at them. They've found themselves to be far more opinionated on the third floor of the Tate modern, having snuck into a £16 entry exhibit featuring the ‘best’ of modern art, or so proclaimed the leaflet someone had left their half eaten hors d'oeuvres on. Niall insisted on this current game, expressing overly introspective interpretations of what it all means until even the most easily convinced people around them dismiss their ideas and move on to grumble about the drunkard youth of today. It may have briefly gotten out of hand when they found a very expensive- looking womens’ coat and kidnapped it to get more into character, but in their defence it was promptly returned to a nearby chair after Louis spilled their complimentary wine down the back.

 

“Mmmaybe we should see the Pollock upstairs!”

Louis snickers into his empty wine glass, all his experience from performing projected into this one character. Ondine who? This is what’s going to make his career.

“Oh honey, I’ve seen plenty of Pillocks in my day, just gotta turn around for one...”

“No…. No Louis,” a sombre tone overcomes Niall, though his eyes remain glazed, “that's Pollocks.”

 

***

 

“I _told_ you! I don't trust bridges!”

 

Louis still yanks him on. Niall’s only decided this once they were halfway across so he doubts it's a legitimate phobia. He's proved to be correct when Niall sprints the rest of the way, having caught sight of four orbs just slightly peeking from the ground, two further supported by visible springs. He dashes onto the first only to lose his balance once the spring orb responds. Louis falls to his knees to rest and watch, producing only heaves and air in the place of laughter.

  
Once Niall masters gentle bounces on the first orb he moves onto the second.

 

“LOUIS IT SPINS!” he rejoices, demonstrating a wonky pirouette as Louis cackles with his stomach somewhere in his chest.

“Let me do it…”

“You can't do that for free! This is how you make a _LIVING!_ ” he slurs, wrapping his arms around the other boy’s waist. Louis flinches instinctively, though the buzz masks exactly why. He places a hand on Niall’s shoulder to steady himself.

“Let me do it.”

Niall considers.  
“What if you fall… on your ASS!” He mimics the sound of ass on pavement by slapping Louis’ cheek, then shaking his head as if he’s just made a profound point. “Bad image… People will see you on posters and think, isn’t that that… drunk ass man? He will fall. And dancing tickets are expensive I don’t think people would pay money to watch you fall if you will do it for free out here...”  
“‘M not… gonna fall.”  
“We _all_ fall, my man. And you’ve got nice trousers on right now so it’d be bad.”  
Louis scowls, but even that’s tiring. He makes to run for it but decides against it, eventually just circling the spot with one foot vaguely in the air before he crashes into Niall’s chest.  
  
“Shit Ni, sorry…”  
Louis does his best at comforting him while he coughs his lungs out, softly patting his head and keeping them relatively stable. He’s not sure if it helps at all, but he can’t ask, because Niall proceeds to throw up and then gracefully deposit himself next to it, groaning pitifully. Louis does not join him.  
  
“Are you okay?”  
Niall groans again, this time forming strained words.“We need… McDonalds.”  
The demand is too explicit to ignore. Louis tries to whine a soft, “nooo…” before he’s cut off by an affronted gape.  
“I could have _DIED_...”

 

***

 

“I'd like… A happy meal with chicken nuggets... orange juice... and one of the good toys. Extra barbecue dip. And then… Louis? Louis what'd you want?”

 

Louis can't help but blank out. The fluency with which Niall recites his order is mesmerising amidst the late night hustle in the cramped space, so distracting that even the rancid smell of fat and oil doesn't freak him out as it usually would. He wonders whether he'd trust this boy to save the world if it came to an apocalypse scenario.

 

“He'll just have small chips. Thanks.”

 

He decides he would.

 

They settle on some dirty steps outside to eat, Niall immediately tearing open the disturbingly colourful box advertising some animated movie about talking animals. Louis closes his eyes as the warmth from the chips soothes his bone chilled hands, the smell a beckoning reminder of some foreign, carefree version of life. He comes to his senses just in time though, returning the packet to Niall with great urgency in exchange for the boy’s orange juice. He lets the residual heat seep into the cold bottle.

 

“‘M not dumb Louis…” Niall says eventually, a little muffled by the food and alcohol infused diction, but still pleasantly honest, “I mean, no hard feelings. You’re not just lying to _me_ . But I’m not dumb.”  
He’s taken aback for a second, not expecting for this to come up given the wild array of dramatic and notable events Niall could’ve brought up. He swallows whatever moisture is left in his mouth and, knowing there’s no bypassing a response, grants a quiet, “I know.”  
“Thanks.”  
  
Niall sounds satisfied enough, but he’s also opened a window for Louis to make a decision about. Maybe this is worse than what Zayn does by prodding incessantly for the things he wants to know, creating a temporary space to receive whatever Louis is willing to part with. If he was any less wasted he might think himself clever, calculating the least incriminating confession as a false white flag to imitate progress in the ‘you can always talk to me’ game they like to play nowadays. But now, on the miserable corner of sad-drunk, he feels unquantifiably awful about restricting his own platform to talk about shit like this to his own best friends.  
  
“I’m really scared about Ondine,” he declares, and it’s embarrassing how little that is to say.  
“I know.”  
“That I’m scared I won’t get it or that I’m scared I will?”  
“Both.”  
“Yeah.”

 

Another pause for Niall to chew, hands working on a new mysterious package. He gulps and grins before turning to wave a garish plastic object in Louis’ face, blurring his own view of the only apology Louis can bring himself to give.  
  
“I got the doooooog!”

 


	13. 9. Allegro assai

This is shaping up to be one of Harry’s worse ‘successes’.

When Ben promised him some gallery space at the next exhibition, Harry was expecting his latest work presented on the highest quality canvas, daydreamed about sneaking around crowds to pickpocket honest opinions as an anonymous, dapper gentleman. That's why he wore the suit, did his hair, chose the nice shoes that weren't so damaged as to display the outline of his toes. The days of struggling artist Harry were over. 

Except, they weren't. Because Ben walks him through it on the day and the first thing he sees is his stupid A level ‘Pieces of Me’ project he keeps in his portfolio only to prove he sat the exam. Professionally printed portraits of his 17 year old self, clear documentation of the period in his life where he looked like Susan Boyle and spent most of his time trying to convince himself that he was straight. Only now it’s on canvases and walls worth more than the camera he took them with for everyone to gawk at. 

He tries to level his voice before he speaks.

“What about my last stuff? Why is this here?”

Ben chuckles, evidently expecting this sort of reaction, “Gotta start at the beginning. Besides, a pretty face doesn't hurt for a debut…”

Those fucking photos. He's gonna delete them all when he gets home. Maybe he'll be able to track down the AQA examiners who marked his AS book and wipe their memory with a hearty swing from a baseball bat. Granted, he's not sure if he owns a baseball bat, and even if he manages to find it he hasn't swung one since he was twelve. Perhaps he ought to drop that part of the plan...

“Some newer ones are scattered around, you’ve got the people over there, I think something from the nude series got put in somewhere...” he cocks his head at him, amused, “Is there a problem?”

Breathe. Ultimately, this job is far too important to blow because of one event since, if he does, this might be the last anyone sees of him; ultimately, photographer Harry Styles doesn’t exist yet, not by any notable standard. Now, if he keeps his mouth shut, there’ll be future exhibitions that meet all his expectations, where he can put up whatever he likes and won’t have to answer to anyone else. There will be great music playing and the temperature will be exactly right and everyone will be so impressed they’ll all forget this first event, unknowingly citing all his inspirations and influences but equally note his own style, his own mark. His husband will be there, because he will have one then, and they will joke about him photographing his own wedding, because he probably would have, and when they steal a moment alone he will recall this moment and how he had stayed calm and had it pay off...

Maybe if he just keeps on repeating that he’ll start to believe it. Maybe. Probably not. He closes his eyes and breathes again, a futile attempt at convincing himself that it’s not a big deal.

“No, no, of course not. All good.”

It stops being  _ all good _ when the first guests pile in and Harry actually has to hear them talk.

 

“ _ Clearly _ the use of black and white is used to mimic Irving Penn, I mean, it's basically a knock-off in that sense; same use of chiaroscuro, same gritty texture…”   
  


“No, see, it’s all about loss. You see the pain and the longing, the negative space highlighting the absence… very nice.”   
  


“Ooh well he's good looking, isn't he? see Lucy, bring home someone like that!”

“ _ Grandma… _ ”   
  


It’s what he wanted, to be fair, but at this point his desire for anonymity has transcended getting honest reviews from his audience to pure embarrassment. While these get legitimately undeserving bouts of attention, the newest work receives no comments, each guest passing by his favourite shots as if it's just a series of empty walls and not painstaking hours trying to find and capture the right scene at the right time.    
  
In a fit of rage, or at least as much rage as he can muster without freezing up at the thought that it might get him in trouble, he pulls a curtain over the whole section as soon as the area is relatively clear, hoping it’ll be a sufficient enough barrier to spare the future patrons. And Louis. While it’s plenty humiliating for flashy industry people to see his shitty, outdated work, the idea that Louis’ first impression of his photography might be his pre-puberty kid photos is mortifying. That said, one swift draw of a curtain and half of Harry’s contribution to the exhibit is gone. He’s just starting to question what the point of any of this is when someone claps him on the shoulder. 

 

“Would you look who’s here...” 

He smiles gratefully once he registers the familiar face of Nick Grimshaw, grinning expectantly with open arms, a drink in his hand.

“It has! I’m so glad you came...” Harry pulls him in for a hug, quick enough to graze his cheek against the smooth texture of his white button-up. “You here to see Ben?”   
Nick scoffs. “Like I don’t have better things to do than visit Ben… Heard you were featuring,  though, congrats. Which ones are yours?”

Harry feels excited for the first time that night, dragging Nick across the room to enact a demonstrative pose (featuring jazz hands) in front of the candid series that everyone else seems to be wandering past. Maybe the drama will garner a crowd? Either way, Nick laughs appreciatively.    
  
“Nice. Presentation is everything.”   
“What about the photos?”   
Nick rolls his eyes at Harry’s half-joking hurt expression.“They’re  _ lovely _ , my dear. I wouldn’t tell you if they were shit, would I?”   
Harry stops joking. “ _ Are they shit? _ ”   
“No, ‘course not. But you know I’m not really here for business, so let’s talk for real. Ben kicking your ass yet or he still playing up that this position is both  _ fun _ and an honour?”

 

While Harry vaguely remembers Nick stressing how tedious his old job could get (admittedly after personally recommending Ben to take a look at Harry’s portfolio), he can’t seem to recall it including specific warnings he would have appreciated, be it Ben’s insistence on only using the one dry cleaners on the other side of London or his tendency to perform unnecessary declarations he likely meant to be inspiring. Perhaps he wouldn’t have heard it anyway, too excited by the prospect of even been considered to consider anything himself. He glances back at the curtain, thinking back to what Ben had said before.    
  
“Um… the latter.”   
“See, the trick is to get a therapist early, I’ll give you Lorraine’s number… He let you work on anything cool by yourself yet?”   
Harry feigns offence. “My exhibition is not cool?”   
“Right, yeah, it’s your first. But you have to catch work by yourself, beyond him. Keeps you sane.”   
Right! He feels a rush at the willing opportunity to talk about Ondine again, having recently come to the conclusion that Liam was too happy for him (and/or polite) to let him know that he’d been repeating himself for days.   
“Okay, so, get this…”   
  
They wander around the space as Harry cycles through the story, Nick nodding thoughtfully in between sips of wine. He embellishes the part where, after getting Nick’s old job working for Ben, his mum had raved about how proud of him she was to Katie, who then asked to see his work, giving himself a more active role. He also omits that Katie wasn’t so much a professional network than a coincidental one, having once upon a time attended someone’s niece's daughter’s ballet recital (which happened to feature his sister, Gemma, and by extension, their mum) and been delighted by them when everyone had to wait outside in the rain after someone pulled the fire alarm. Nick may be considered a friend, but he doesn’t need to know the backstory to his very serious very professional very cool job...   
  
“So that’s gonna be, what, article shoots and official promo material?”   
“I mean… they’ll probably have other promo people on standby…”   
“What, in case you forget to take your lense cap off?” Nick thumps him on the back, “You’ll do great man, congrats. Ballet dancers though…” he tuts, rolling his glass side to side.   
“What?”   
“Don’t get me wrong, most of them are lovely to shoot with, very normal, down-to-earth. But you also tend to get a bit of the  _ Black Swan _ variety, proper nightmare.” he jostles his shoulder playfully when the frown doesn’t go away, “It’s a can of worms man, you’ll see for yourself.”   
Harry shakes his head, measuring his own experiences thus far. “I don’t think that’s the case… I’ve been there a couple times now and they’ve all been really nice.”   
By which he means, Katie is nice. And he’s had really nice chats with some of the girls the couple times he took a wrong turn. And, of course, Louis is nice. To look at, and talk to, and think about…   
Nick shrugs. “It depends who you’re working with. The higher you go in the company the more likely you’ll find it, it’s a weird correlation. Maybe it gives them an edge in the competition, or something...”   
“I mean, he’s like a soloist, so,” Harry mumbles, a little defensive. He thinks Nick’s selective hearing might not catch it but of course it does, turning to him slowly, a teasing smirk forming even slower.

  
“I see that was a singular ‘they’, that’s interesting...”   
“Oh no, I,” Harry laughs dismissively, “just, since I haven't started properly yet, mostly meetings, I've only met like, two, people? Maybe? Properly, anyway. No, he's, I mean…”

“Don't psych yourself out,” Nick cuts him and the taunt short, downing the rest of his wine, “I'd bet money your ballerino will be putty in your hand by the end of the month.”

“It's not like that, he’s, I’m like---”   
He takes no notice of Harry’s rising nerves.    
“Any chance we’ll get to see him tonight?”   
  


Harry may need to thank divine intervention for the distraction that takes place then, the fateful clattering of metal curtain hoops as its open and shut. His curtain. He looks back at Nick as apologetically as he can manage, all the while slowly escaping with careful backward steps.

  
“Sorry I’ve… got to be a host, right?”   
Nick shakes his head chuckling, picking up a fresh glass from a passing waiter to point at Harry, “Don’t think you’ll get out of this that easily, Styles. I’ll be waiting.”

 

Out of sight, Harry walks with the jolly bounce of having successfully evaded a very awkward conversation, gaining step when he considers that Ben might have just caught his (albeit minimally) rebellious act and is preparing to publicly denounce him when the time is right. Perhaps if he finds him first, at the scene of the crime, he can join his side and act oblivious? The dishonesty of that plan rubs him the wrong way though, and as he nears the curtain he’s calmed by the sight of two visitors rather than one angry Ben. However, this is only a brief respite once he recognises who they are.

 

He can’t understand, much less explain, how one man can simultaneously make him feel warm and calm, content and more stressed than he’s ever been in his life. Sick, almost.

 

Although he’s dimmed down today - muted, like he hasn’t slept - it only makes him easier to look at; like catching the sun, barely awake. Carefully piled fringe that does little to soften the elfish features of his face, the high cut cheekbones, the five o'clock shadow, but ultimately is no competition for the eyes dressed in lashes that make Harry’s heart hurt a little with fleeting glances, all intensity. He stands slanted, like he can't decide how to distribute his weight with the heavy leather jacket swung over his shoulders, slightly too long for him. His small frame is exaggerated by the distance, lines and curves bent into the protective presence of Zayn, who looks far too good for his own good in a matching black button-up, grey suspenders and two forearms’ worth of tattoos. Yet there’s only one rightful place to look...

 

Indeed, once he’s closer Harry can’t contain himself at the sight, so instead of doing anything normal, let alone cool or suave, he squeals “You came!” like the one kid whose mum made make friends with him finally showed up to his otherwise desolate birthday party. _  
___  
Feverish. That’s what it is.  
  
With the recovery timer ticking, he hastes into a hug before Louis can laugh at him and walk out, potentially holding him a tad too tight in the process as he fears the look on his face when he lets go. Instead, the softest ‘Hi’ settles his nerves, although he may have even imagined that. He releases him reluctantly to give Zayn an equally awkward, brief handshake.

  
“This looks great, man, really cool. Whole exhibition’s yours?” Zayn asks once the greetings are done, calm eye contact as if he’s monitoring Harry’s gaze which, admittedly, wants to wander back to Louis.    
He recites what’s on the leaflet. Zayn asks more questions. For a minute he thinks the only other thing he’ll get to say to Louis will be a curt goodbye when he leaves, probably still clutching Zayn’s arm so tightly as to form a small, vertical groove in the middle of his wrist, like now. But then he recalls Liam mentioning (incessantly) that Zayn was an artist, as well as the various trips to visit him at uni, and figures it a safe conversational bet to give him the reins and, incidentally, sneak a glance at Louis. Besides, all the questions make him nervous.   
  
“Art at uni? It was okay, staff was good. We had to smoke a lot of weed to get any good ideas in time for assessments, though.”   
“Oh, right.”   
“You seem to be doing well for yourself though, so I’m not convinced you need it if you were thinking of going back. Feels like it’s really just about your portfolio than formal shit, doesn’t really help with what I’m doing now.”

  
Except now he struggles to divide his attention equally when Louis looks so zoned out, staring at seemingly nothing while Zayn carries the conversation with no indication that anything is wrong. He gets the sense that this is what he's supposed to do as well but still, he can't help but keep looking, checking that Louis is still Louis.   
  
“Right, right. You’re… What are you doing now?” he presses, intent on maintaining as much eye contact as possible so that he appears more engaged than he is. Something’s  _ up _ .

“So I started a tattoo apprenticeship before I finished my degree, just now completed it…”   
  
He's temporarily placated until his next glance, which just about cuts off his air supply. The memory of the smile and the warmth of Nick’ encouragement is gone, replaced with the stark image of Zayn's hand on Louis’ arm, this semi-possessive gesture that makes his chest drop. Zayn on Louis. On. And. With. 

  
Play it cool, that’s what we are. Cool. Zayn continues talking despite the clear invasion, like it’s nothing of note, and Harry guesses it isn’t. Not really. Not together. Wasn’t that one of the first things Louis said to him? This is fine.

 

By some miracle he manages to pass it off without anyone noticing, rescuing the moment with a change of topic. They talk about Zayn’s job, and he even gets invited to the studio whe works at, which incidentally provides a semi-natural sounding entry-point to voice his mounting concern, be it irrational, obsessive or unwarranted.   
“Louis said you were close, so--”   
“So a primary source for dirt, I get it. Yeah man, love to chat shit about him, anytime.”

  
He laughs, and he’s glad, he is, because he wanted to make friends in London! That’s really what all of this was about. And yet he can’t help a little part of him writhe enviously with the sinking feeling that Zayn, Niall, even Liam, may know Louis better than he ever will. He tries to turn it around with a suggestion of group plans, hoping it might coax Louis to say something as if that pretty Yorkshire lilt will somehow fix how shit he feels. It doesn’t.   
  
“What?” he croaks, blinking at him with a new lostness.    
So Harry repeats himself carefully, tripping into intermittent pauses as the looming approval decision hangs in the air. In response, Louis’ nose scrunches up, eyes trained in concentration as his pupils size up and down at seemingly nothing. Now that they're so close Harry's got the unspoken privilege of seeing them in detail, like the feathery amber speckled through his iris, though largely submerged in the pure blue. And indeed, they draw him in like sirens to jagged rock, quickly taking priority over the answer he’s waiting for.   
  
Still, no answer comes, and Zayn takes over again,   
  
“I’m sure you’ll be roped in next time,” he cuts in, a stale politeness Harry’s not too confident with. “Niall’s always planning something…”   
“You think?”   
“Sure. All friends now, right?”   
  
Outside of the immediate field of attention Louis flutters his eyes barely-closed once more, sinking his weight back into Zayn. Except he doesn't look relaxed in the least, Harry notes, because he can see he's just fallen into a practiced posture of apparent comfort rather than truly let anything go; every fibre of muscle wound up tense, but laid out in a way that no one should suspect it. He looks like he could be knocked over with a gentle nudge when Niall joins them; what appeared to be a sleepless night now looks like twenty, and the bags under his eyes are no less pronounced when his eyelashes sweep over them.

 

It must be the stress. He wonders if rehearsal’s started yet. If he should’ve warned him earlier...   
  
“...Couldn’t get away from them asking my opinion about some ugly pier you’d get as a default desktop background… Oh my bad, man,” Niall grimaces as he realises he might have offended him. He points to Ben’s isolation landscapes across the room from them, “was that yours?”   
_ Fuck no. _   
“No that’s um… That’s Ben’s…”   
“Great, haven’t met a Ben yet!” Niall turns to Louis, bringing him in closer as Louis squints at him in mild confusion, raising an eyebrow as Niall begins looking around the room. Harry briefly wonders what that’s like, being able to wrap your arm around Louis like that, nonchalantly, stand by him, have him looking at  _ you _ and still be able to tear your eyes away.

 

“Taylor, over here! This is Tay--”   
  


Harry finds out.   
  
It takes a supreme level of control to stay silent but still he stands, patiently letting Taylor approach, rest her hand on his shoulder, make calculated introductions in her decisively precise order of personal importance. 

 

“Zayn, Zayn Malik,”

“What a name! What is it you do love?”

“Tattoo artist.”

“Oh well aren't you a doll, we really should collaborate on… well, something! Do you know Shahid? No? I’ll introduce you later, you’d be a perfect fit...”

 

This is what she does, after all, what she’s always done. On multiple occasions she has said the same at different events, then turned to Harry to roll her eyes and chuckle, _‘as_ _if!’._

 

“And… Sorry, remind me?”

“Niall, studying to become an engineer. Doing my masters now.”

“Oh, well... charmed.”

 

She’s just about to get to the point too, about to put all that decadent focus on Louis, when Harry registers that Louis is observing _ him _ now, a penetrating, curious gaze he can’t believe he has to deny. Anything, he’d answer, anything Louis wanted. Just not this. Not right now.

 

“Louis Tomlinson,” he states, cut and paste, and looks straight past her at Harry, as if to turn him into marble. It’s unintentionally captivating, so Harry blocks out most of Taylor’s false enthusiasm, unfortunately catching the end of, “can you  _ believe  _ the Royal Ballet is pulling a gender switch on  _ Swan Lake, the  _ most iconic ballet in history?”   
What he wouldn’t give to just melt into the floor... __   
  


“Ondine.”   
He frowns, not expecting Louis to sound so awake or dry. Taylor clearly wasn’t either.

“Sorry?”

“We're doing Ondine,” he informs her. Harry notes how remarkably alike it is to the way Katie talks sometimes, cool and aloof. Maybe it’s a principal dancer thing. Perhaps he should ask Nick.   
“Different ballet.”

“Oh.” Taylor purses her lips, “well you must still be honoured, first male Ondine!”   
Louis shoots him another pointed glance, almost accusatory. Harry swallows, and prays this is the last time he has to look at him with such indignation.   
“ _ Yeah _ .”

 

The indents of that equally puzzled-irked frown punctuate what should be the end of the conversation. This is Harry’s channel in, and he's just about to comment on Taylor’s outfit, or the photos, or anything that he is not responsible and could get in trouble for but she's quick to switch, tipping her head towards her shoulder as if she's analysing a work of art. 

 

She points out his features one by one and Harry finds himself blindly following along with the aesthetic notes, imagining what he could do with a model like Louis, a stupid habit he’s developed from a lifetime of poring over fashion magazines, people-watching and now, Louis-watching. Always comes back to this, with him; a reminder that Louis is just as pretty as he emanates. He tries to stop himself, knows how fucked up it is with Louis clearly shifting in discomfort as he struggles to retort, but the simulated images he’s got reeling in his head are too convincing, too promising to discard. Taylor’s next proposition is just enough to knock him back. 

 

“I should write an article about you, Louis!”

 

_ Fuck.  _

 

“...we could shoot you in a high contrast set, nude, of course...”

Louis’ eyes grow wide where Zayn’s darken.

“Taylor,” Harry warns, slightly blind-sided.

“... Get whoever’s playing Odette's prince to come too, get some kissing shots, really dramatic imagery, especially with what's happening in America I mean I would never--”

This is way too far. He should have stopped her when he had the chance.

“ _ Taylor _ .”

“Oh Harry I know you'd like him all for yourself but once we put him in the magazines he's fair game. Oh please tell me you're at least bi, sweetie…”

This is all his fault...

“TAYLOR.”

 

When he kills her he’ll argue a temporary insanity defence. She eyes him with a barely raised brow, a curious challenge as to what he’ll say next through the adrenaline running its course through his upper body.  Any witness in the room would judge in his favour once they saw the look on Louis’ face, a paper layer of civility, his meagre attempt at disguising the flickering of some unreadable feeling lying beneath. He mutters a soft but firm “excuse me” as he unwinds himself from the group, visibly shaken as he breaks away from Zayn’s grasp. 

 

Taylor laughs to break the tension, “was it something I said?” 

Harry can only glare, burning a hole in the ground as he curses himself for such stupidity. 

It’s Niall who answers, “Louis is under a lot of stress right now,” as Zayn adds stiffly, politely,   
“We’d better have a look-around too. Enjoy the exhibition...”

 

He nudges Niall to signify a collective direction, nodding a curt goodbye as they leave the metaphorical scene of the crime. It barely takes a beat for Taylor to speak again. 

 

“D’you know where Nick is? Someone mentioned that he’s here and he still owes me a drink after New York…”   
“What?”   
“ _ New York _ ,” she repeats matter-of-factly, “I did him a favour. I’ll do you one too if you convince pretty boy to do my article. Doesn’t talk half as posh as you’d think, does he?”   
The dazzling smile is gone, replaced with a more natural stance as she downs the rest of her drink. Harry tries to take a calming breath. It doesn’t work this time, and Taylor notices.

“Wow. If you could see yourself, your nostrils are  _ so _ dilated. Thought you’d like to be on board for that but, fine, I’ll get someone else to do it...”

  
“His name is Louis, and he’s my friend.”   
She waves her hand to tap her temple, punctuating the “Duh. Why else would I ask you?”   
Harry sighs. “Why are you here?”   
“Here London or here gallery?”   
“Both.”   
“Work. And work… happened to hear about a rising star, I just had to find him before anyone else,” she curls her index finger around a lock of his hair, “Figured he’d be with the birdie who praised him so…”   
Harry shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have told you anything...”   
“Oh please, we’re old friends, you and I, of course you should have! Connections are everything in this business, and Winston’s name will only take you so far…”   
“Will upsetting potential interviewees take you further, then? Because that’s not the business I signed up for.”   
  
She rolls her eyes as if the concept is too juvenile for her to consider, focused instead on rummaging in her clutch to locate her phone.   
“Always so idealistic when they get started… How was I supposed to know he’d react like that? I figured he’d be used to worse.”

Harry frowns at the prospect, “what's that supposed to mean?”

“Think about it Harry, it's a fucked up industry! All those teachers and instructors are just failed dancers taking their shit out on their students until they become bitter failures too. I _guarantee_ you, he _has_ and _will_ hear much worse than anything I can say. At least I offered him some good press in the deal...”

“Because you tricked me into sharing insider information---”

“Oh fuck  _ off _ Harry, the fact that you're trying to shift blame onto me only proves that you  _ know _ you fucked up. Start taking some fucking responsibility for the shit you do and drop the Nice Guy act, it doesn’t suit you…”

 

A beat of silence, the ultimate rarity in conversations with Taylor.    
“Even if he  _ is  _ used to it doesn’t mean you need to subject him to it too,” Harry eventually states, stare focused somewhere downward, “the fact that you’d seek him out and pester him so you can appear more familiar when the news actually blows up, the fact you’d do it at my first proper London exhibition...”   
She purses her lips in mock thought.   
“Get me an interview when he gets cast and I’ll make sure to apologise.”   
  
“To who?”   
“Oh,” she looks back at him, amused, “You want an apology too?”   
He stumbles under her gaze, like catching his foot on her trap after celebrating his passing of it.   
“I…”   
“Like I said,” Taylor insists, a satisfied smirk poising the words, “doesn’t suit you.”

  
She unlocks her phone and, conversation as good as closed, departs with a brisk wave and that old classic smile promising how much she’s missed the next person.   
  
**   
  
“It’s a solid start, good turn-out,” Ben declares later, after everyone’s gone and the catering staff is cleaning up the venue. Harry stands in the middle of the main room, where he’s stood the past couple hours, staring blankly ahead at the pier photo Niall had slagged off earlier. Even that seems like a lifetime away.   
  
“When’s the next one?” he asks, hoping he sounds a little something like Katie too.   
“Whenever you’re ready. But I’ve got other work for you in the meantime. And you’ve got the ballet stuff keeping you busy. Might be best not to do anything focused for some time, it’ll just be throw-in things for a while.”   
“What about doing something alone? When can I do something like that?”   
Ben guffaws, mostly in surprise at such a straightforward question, “A whole show alone?”   
  
Harry doesn’t say anything else, which is more in line with how he usually is at work. Perhaps that’s why Ben sees that he’s not joking.   
“Can’t fault your ambition, kid...”   
  
When that diversion doesn’t suffice, he finally lends him an answer.   
“When someone asks me about you. When someone important knows your name.”   
  


  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two were such a bitch to write bc I live for background information and could have literally done this chapter from everyone else's point of view but that would be very boring for anyone who isn't me. More importantly they've thrown off my plan to catch up time wise so the Christmassy chapters could be posted alongside Actual Christmas but then again, knowing me those will probably be up in time for next year...
> 
> Anyway, hope this is okay and of course happy birthday to my lovely boy, now a full five years old.  
> As always, thank you for reading xx


	14. 10. Vivace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (A/N: Following real life events I'd like to reiterate that this story and its characters are purely fictional, and their roles in this story are not meant to disrespect the real life people they are based on.)

Niall and Louis’ adventure draws out to the early hours of the morning, by which time both boys have sobered up relatively well, the former punctuating the passage of time with low groans at the settling hangover. Louis keeps quiet. Not swamped in critical thought, but numb, casual wonderings concerning Harry and Taylor, as well as the conversation that made him flee in the first place.   
  


It makes him cringe knowing that he’s running away now. Throughout his life he’s been a domineering force, always within (and often operating) the sphere of attention and influence, from when he was an only child, to each added sibling and friend in the various overlapping cliques at school. He says what he thinks, right? That’s what people always hate about him. There’s the charismatic sassy Louis with funny, shady remarks, and then there's just the ass part; the bitter, bratty side that his favourite people are too often exposed to, as his recent altercation with Zayn proves.    
  


For a period of time that’s how he knew who his real friends were, those who still challenged him when he got like that and didn’t just cave. He hated the caving,  _ yes Louis, sorry Louis _ . Even though he would rather die than admit it, he knows he needs to be reined in every once in a while, if only to prevent the reckless damage he’d be able to inflict otherwise, with few consequences. So to think that he'd rather run than defend himself? It does more than just bruise the ego.

“Why  _ your _ place?” Niall questions halfway up the stairs to Louis’ apartment, clinging onto the handrail, eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to block out the fluorescent lights.

“It was closer.”

It wasn’t. But he needs to leave for the studio in half an hour and the lie saves time and energy.

 

Harry called him flighty. He can’t help but take that as a critique on his character, the connotation cowardly, unreliable. ‘Flighty’, and then ‘little bird’. How has Harry managed to slip a nickname like that past him with little to no resistance? How has he only just realised? And why does it matter, ultimately, because he’s a grown man with a career he loves, a doting family, a sodding apartment in  _ London _ for Christ's sake, so why does Harry - who he’s known for a scarce length of time - and his opinion concern him so much?

 

He unlocks the door, prodding a hazy Niall towards the couch. A single groan signifies a goodnight, and Louis makes a quick trip to the sink to pour himself a glass of water before making for the shower.

 

Today’s the day the cast list goes up.

 

He drinks another glass after he gets out, then sips another as he gets dressed. Two ibuprofens as he waits for the kettle to boil. Tea in flask and flask in hand. He closes the front door behind him quietly, the lock gently clicking behind him.

Steps. Down and out of the apartment building, straight, turn, turn, straight. A cigarette, then up into the train station. He tops up his oyster card, beeps through the ticket barriers. A glance at the departure boards. Eight minutes. The doors shut as lazily as they open, too early even for the mechanics. Soon out onto streets, still dark, to stage door. Sign name, warm up. Warm up warm up warm up. It doesn’t matter. You were never going to get it. Foolish of you to think otherwise.

 

“There’s three large male roles. And... they get a man to play one of the two female ones? Fucking  _ mental _ ...”

Eleanor’s voice is surprisingly loud in the hallway, itself an unusually populated clamoring mess this early in the morning. The cast list must be up already. He’ll take a look once he finishes this bit, maybe when he wakes up a little more and his muffled hangover subsides. He really should take another ibuprofen...

 

“Yeah, he  _ wishes _ I’d do that shit, no way man…”

Thomas’ voice is not surprisingly loud, just the right measure of self important asshole as has come to be the expected norm, his friends jeering and chortling in the distance. Except the distance decimates much too quickly, Thomas suddenly face to face with Louis in a stance that promises conflict, a semi circle of dancers already hovering around the intent.

 

“What did you do this time?”

Louis blinks calmly, “what now?” 

He’s fucking exhausted, and with no wish to entertain this. Class is already bad enough being shown up by the corps without Thomas spitting in his face from dawn to dusk.

“You, being so desperate for solos that you’ll get down on your knees for anything. So what did you have to do this time?” the corridor crowd erupts into a mixed chorus of disapproval, laughter and meaningless noise, all somewhat eager for a fight.

  
“What  _ are _ you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you fucking management to crawl back up to your old spot.” Thomas folds his arms, smirking like he’s hot on the trail of a fresh scandal. “Guessing the deal to get back in the company wasn’t enough for you, so you whored yourself out for even more special treatment...”   
Louis rolls his eyes. “Got me there. Big ol’ whore.”   
“So? Who is it? Who’s fucking up the casting for everyone else because Tomlinson sucks cock for a living?”   
  
What’s that thing people say, about taking mocking as a compliment? That it’s jealousy, that those who do it all too often have serious problems in their own lives, and take it out on whoever can take it. That ultimately, one should ignore them. It comes to mind, but Louis is far too tired to be the bigger man.   
  


He shrugs, “I mean... I can pass on your number if you want to try out  _ so _ bad, but they still have standards...”

Thomas tries to lunge forward, red in the face as one of his friends holds him back, “I’m not a fucking faggot!”    
The group dynamic dampens then, drawing more disapproval. Danielle tries to reason with him, a futile attempt at defusing the situation. “Thomas--”   
“Fucking say that again, I dare you!”   
Louis sighs, regarding him with tired pity. 

“You said yourself, there’s far more lucrative options for this whore mouth of mine than to stand here and repeat myself. Your buddies can fill you in.”

  
With no corners to be backed into this time, Louis meanders past the group and into the corridor, the gnawing sensation of his unfinished warm-up an irking itch under his skin. Still, perhaps that’s better than further provocation, his chest already rattled with anxiety from the confrontation and Thomas clearly armed and ready with albeit lazy threats. The crowd seems most disappointed though, some still vocalising their dissatisfaction by the time he's facing the notice board, all the way down the winded corridor.

 

The cast list.

They’ve never scared him on the day, not really. Since he started dancing properly he would audition, calm and confident and charming as all hell. The idea of deliberation, ending with a yes or no decision only became a cause for stress once he’d walked out, lasting all of the days or weeks or months of wait before he was due a verdict. Once the day came it would all have been spent, and if by chance it wasn’t, Jay would sit him down and formally debate any reason why he thinks he wouldn’t have got in. Anything he said she would dispel, even when he would run out of genuine things to say and turn to straws, how it was raining that day, or that he had had something different for breakfast. Stubborn as he was, Jay was more so, and he would be convinced that there was nothing to worry about, and that, most importantly, he would get it. And Jay had never been wrong.

 

He isn’t scared now.

A sucker for the dramatic, he scans the list from the bottom up out of habit, though this time only half for suspense and half out of genuine belief that he may be stuck in the corps. Except he can’t find his name in the midst of wood sprites, sailors, wedding guests, leaving only the named characters. Hermit goes to one of Thomas’ idiot friends, Tirrenio to Steve, a visiting addition to the company. There’s Palemon for Thomas, which would explain his outburst, and though Louis hates to admit it, the role is perfect for him. His eyes scan for Eleanor's name, fully expecting it to top the list until he finds it too early, three lines down under Berta.

 

And then at the top, just like it was before everything went wrong, stark black on white listing Louis Tomlinson as the Royal Ballet’s Ondine.

  
  


**   
  


He doesn’t even bother to text before he rushes into a cubicle, scrolling shakily until he finds his mother’s number. The line barely rings twice before a background hustle fills the phone.

“ _ I don’t care what you want, you’re going to school. Get dressed Phoebe, I don’t have time for this, _ ” Jay’s voice is all too familiar, the memory of early school mornings under her organisation a homesick rush for Louis, who is already on the verge of happy tears.   
  


“Mum...”

“ _ Fizzy, watch Ernest for me please, I’ve got your brother on the phone for once. _ ”

And there’s the guilt. Lottie can be heard yelling in the background, ‘ _ NO. WAY.  _ LET ME TALK TO HIM!’ as Jay counters,   
“ _ Next. You’ll talk to him next. You become a mother, you earn the right to talk to your firstborn first... _ ”   
  


“Mum.”

“ _ My gorgeous boy, I’ve missed you! Tell me everything, how are you eating, how are you sleeping, did you get the clothes I sent you? I keep telling Zayn to catch me up because I know you’re so busy and bless his heart, he tries, such a lovely boy, but really I think I’m crossing the line to seriously obsessive parenting… _ ”

“I’ve missed you too mum.”

  
Some shuffling on the other hand, clearly multi-tasking, with the phone balanced between her ear and shoulder. He shouldn’t have called so early…   
“ _ How’s it going at the company? Zayn said they’re doing Ondine, remember that? And Eleanor is there with you isn’t she, I mean talk about deja vu… _ "

“We are, yeah, it’s…”

“ _ She was a nice girl, that Eleanor, a tad too ambitious and naturally, a girl, but so pretty. I know you’re busy darling but Nan keeps pestering me for you to settle down, find a nice boy and bring him home. Did you know Lottie’s got a boyfriend? Maybe she told you. I don’t know how much you’ve missed since we last talked… _ ”

“Yeah, I… I’m sorry mum. I’ve been, just... busy, a lot.”

“ _ Oh darling I know, but I’m so glad you called. Tell me about you now, I’ve been rattling on and on, you know me… _ ”

“I got in, mum, I got Ondine.”

  
The first silence.

  
“ _ YOU’RE NOT EVEN TALKING TO HIM! _ ” Lottie protests, this time with an audible attempt to wrestle the phone out of Jay’s hand.

“ _ Shut up Lotts. Louis, are you serious? _ ” her voice is tentative, swelling.

“Yeah I… they asked me to audition for it and, I got it. I got it, mum.”

It doesn’t feel real, not until she squeals down the phone and he has to dash it away from his ear.

“ _ My beautiful boy, of course you did! They can’t keep you away can they, main role already! I am so proud of you my boy, so so proud! When is it love, do you know yet? _ ”

He finds himself grinning, though thoroughly humbled by the warm conviction in his mother’s compliments. He wipes what would be the beginning of tears from his eyes.

“It’s um, a short run, I can send you the details... They might extend it depending on reception.”

She tuts absentmindedly, “ _ Outside of half term holidays, I bet... You know I’m ready to pick everyone up and drive over to see you... _ ”

“No mum, don’t bother, I’ll be fine.”

“ _ No darling, you’ll be  _ brilliant _. And hopefully they push it all the way back to July, so we can all be there to support you. School holidays start so late nowadays, I swear they work these kids now more than they do at uni... _ ”

He chuckles, imagining the tone Jay is sure to be using at the next parents evening, the tone he himself has inherited. There's a disjointed wave of more background noise before a new voice takes over.

  
“ _ Hey loser, come home. _ ”

Any trace of melancholy is replaced with the big brother banter reserved solely for his eldest sister, “Oi, why don’t you come visit me? Can’t you drive yet?”

“ _ I’m working on it. Besides, I’ve got college. _ ”

“I’ve got  _ work _ .”

“ _ So now that you’re a big shot dancer you can’t be arsed to visit your family? You’re such a wanker… _ ”

A distant ‘LOTTIE!’ scolds her choice of words.

“ _ Sorry mum. Louis isn’t a wanker… he’s a massive wanker… _ ”

Louis huffs, but he’s sure she can hear him grinning, “Pretty sure I was talking to mum and not you?”

“ _ Well if you answered my calls I wouldn’t have to hijack hers. But sure, be like that. _ ”

He snorts at her snarky tone.

“Love you Lottie.”

“ _ Love you too loser. Congrats on the lead role. _ ”

 

The phone is passed on with another loud transitional noise sequence.

“ _ Louis, darling, I hate to cut this short since we haven't talked in so long, but I need to sort out this horrible lot for school because it seems they’re finding it especially difficult today... _ ”

He can almost see the accompanying look, a pointed quasi-threat.

“They better be behaving over there, are you managing?”

“ _ Nothing I can't handle after the battle that was raising you, my love, but I’m willing to pretend otherwise if it means you’ll come home to help out for a while. Then again, can’t miss your big performance, so I’ll settle for a call. A long one. Soon. _ ”

He smiles, biting the inside of his cheek. “I promise.”

  
“ _ Good. Prepare yourself for a lot more discussion too, don’t want you putting your health on a shelf because you convince yourself you’re the reincarnation of Baryshnikov. I find out you’re not and I’ll start requesting blood tests… _ ”

He chuckles, though 100% certain such an arrangement would be entirely possible considering the extent of Jay's influence.

“Yes mum.”

“ _ And Louis, well done. We are all so very proud of you. Make sure the boys take you out for me, yeah? Celebrate properly. I love you, my darling. _ ”

“I love you too.”

 

He waits for the end tone before leaving the cubicle, washing his hands as he notes his reflection in the mirror.

  
  



	15. Largo

“You touch me any more than you have to, and I’ll make you wish you were never born.”  
  
It feels like a small print catch. Like, you’ll be in a key position in one of the top industries in your field, your dream career, the one every advisor and teacher told you to have a backup

plan for. Except, you’ll be spending the best part of a season in the arms of Thomas Parker, pretending to be tragically in love with him. Each touch feigns warmth but leaves behind imprints of a threat, though Louis forces his body to cave into it regardless. Although, there’s still room to be snarky.  
  
“Beat you to it.”   
  
The resident choreographer, claps his hands together with an echoing force, an unequivocal demand for respect to balance out that given to Madame with little question. She stands by him now, arms folded with calculating eyes as he tries to be relatable.

“Right boys, I want to see the pas de l’ombre!”   
  
The piano speeds up as they run through the routine, Madame carefully observing each movement. Though Thomas’ sloppy first lift immediately earns him a cold reprimand, Louis makes sure to tut as he is set down into an embrace. He escapes the fuming glare with free reign, interspersed with the occasional return to his Palemon, who looks like he might just die when the choreography requires him to bow for the other man.   
  
But Louis can’t be bitter, not as Ondine. Returning to full time pointe feels like coming home and, pair that with the dual familiarity and foreignness of this ballet, there's a unique resonance with this particular character, girl or not. However he may feel about Thomas in private is irrelevant to the skittish, lively steps and loving glances like blown kisses; it all becomes true then, every movement following a line of corresponding thought. Madame makes few comments, even a faint ‘hmm’ at the rapid, complicated footwork before Louis folds, falling at Thomas’ feet. She signals for the pianist to stop.

  
“Parker, what’s the problem?”   
“I--”

“Can you or can you not perform a simple lift?”

“I can.”

“Then do. The last thing we need is a lawsuit when you drop him and Ondine has to dance in a cast.”

  
Thomas nods, forcibly obedient, but mutters “don’t want to catch anything...” as soon as Madame turns her back to discuss a small sequence with the choreographer. With the attention away from them, Louis becomes hyper aware of the vulnerable position he’s in, splayed facedown on the ground beneath someone who could easily qualify as his mortal enemy. The nerves beg him to sit up but he remains patient and still, grateful that Thomas takes a similar approach. Madame finally turns back to them.   
  
“Louis, you’ll go through that last bit with Alberto, get it really clean. Parker, lifts. Continue from there.”   


They don't need to be told twice. Thomas lifts Louis from the floor into another embrace as his hand reaches up to brush Thomas’ cheek. The look of pure, unadulterated disdain he claims to hold for Louis doesn’t reach his eyes most days, but now it seems his whole face unintentionally softens at the gesture. It’s quickly replaced with a cover up, more aggressive stance unbefitting the scene, but Louis leaves it for Madame to comment on. Instead, he focuses his attention on the choreography, a hesitant moment as Ondine backs away and Palemon follows with an assuring plea, begging her to stay. With Thomas’ hands around his waist Louis bends against the attached discomfort, more exposed than he’s ever dreamed of being in Thomas’ vicinity. The hands remain, sometimes fixed and sometimes levitating as Ondine twirls, reaching out to each side of the would-be audience as they dance as one. Louis turns to face him with both arms up, and with newfound focus Thomas lifts Louis once more, above his head. The music swells, and as he’s gradually lowered Louis let's his arm sink too, slow as honey.   
  
The piano stops, a cue for Thomas to deposit Louis on the ground as quickly as possible, shifting away with downcast eyes as if cleansing his mind of the act. It’s at this point that Louis looks around to see that Madame has moved on to the other side of the room to Eleanor, standing bolt straight next to a slouching Harry Styles.   
  
Who else.

 

They haven’t seen or spoken to each other since the gallery event. In utterly un-Harry fashion he’s hardly even texted, just a generic ‘thank you for coming tonight’ and ‘hope you got home safe’ minutes later. Now he stands sloped forward, feet pointed inward as Eleanor nods enthusiastically in response to whatever Madame is saying. They look curiously alike, both a tad too scantily clad for a professional environment with hair scraped back, Eleanor’s just barely mussed with perfect tendrils hanging by either ear. Madame turns to leave, but not without rubbing Harry’s shoulder. He looks up to smile, his face dropping instantly as he meets Louis’ eyes.

  
“Take five, guys!” the choreographer booms loud enough for the whole cast to hear, an uphill battle as clambering and chatting takes over the space.   
  
Eleanor takes the opportunity to saunter up to Thomas.   
“Hot,” she teases, “Danielle should be careful, might lose you to the other team…”   
“Shut the fuck up, Eleanor.”

Thomas storms out of the room, leaving Louis standing around awkwardly, instinctively reaching up to brush his hair out of his eyes. Eleanor turns to him, her smirk softening to a warmer grin.  
“How the tables have turned...”   
Louis smiles, “you should have got it…”   
“I should have. But you’ll do.”   
  
She glances back at Harry, who looks even more out of place though various dancers gaze curiously in his direction.   
“I met your friend. When did _that_ happen?”   
“He’s not… I don’t know. He’s Liam’s friend. We went out once.”   
She clicks her tongue, “Well he’s fit. We hung out the other day…”   


That's the last image he needs in his mind. The way this week is going, with rehearsals and Thomas and now _Harry_ , he needs a fucking drink. Or twenty.

 

Or _none._ Zayn probably deserves a medal for managing to restrain his fury after Louis’ and Niall’s shenanigans, limiting himself to a strict lecture once the boys recovered. No need to rock the boat even more; Louis doesn’t need, and honestly wouldn’t be able to handle, another fight.

 

“Why?”   
“He asked to take some photos for his portfolio. Had some free time,” she scrolls through her iPhone gallery, photos of individual polaroids on what must be her coffee table. So obnoxious, as far from endearing as there is. Louis crinkles his nose.   
“Polaroids?”   
“I _know_ , so cute. Raved about it, cost him as much as a standard digital… whatever. I can’t remember what it was...”

 

The thought trails off with a too-loud ‘YEAH?’ as a friend calls her from across the room, the flip of her ponytail a cracking whip Louis just about misses. She departs without a goodbye but Louis already senses his dismissal, turning to his water bottle at the edge of the room. He takes a drink. Gulps. His throat stings. Another throat clears, not his, but it feels like it might be by the way it echoes in his head.  
  
“Hi.”   
  
He shouldn’t be angry. It’s stupid of him to be angry. Harry doesn’t owe him anything, they’re barely friends, barely know each other. They’ve spent time together, sure, but he spends time with the corner shop woman that tops up his oyster, doesn’t mean he gets angry when she doesn’t talk to him for days after asking him out to a _tea shop_ then asking him out again to go to see her work at a gallery, which is, mind you, a career defining moment, so why is she inviting some random bloke off the street to witness such a pivotal life event anyway? Mental. Must be mental. He can top his oyster up at the station. In fact, he _will_ top up his oyster at the station from now on.   
  
He’s kind of angry.   
  
“Harry.”   
  
Harry clears his throat again. There’s that grating desire again, just wanting to punch him square in the face. If only it were that easy.   
  
He tries again, less accusatory.

 

“Hi. Harry. Yeah, mate, what’s up?”  
  
“Are you upset?”   
“Am I-- am I what sorry?”   
“Upset.”   
Louis laughs dismissively, “upset, why would I be upset?”

“I’m sorry about Taylor--”  
“Don’t worry about it.”   
“--she shouldn’t have done that--”   
“Seriously, leave it…”   
“-- I wanted to talk to you--”   
“Did you?”

 

The worst pause yet. He should’ve just played it cool, but now they both know it hurt. Harry drops his gaze, unable to meet the challenging stare Louis’ dealt him. He bites his lip.  
  
“I didn’t want you to think it was a planned thing. I wasn’t expecting Taylor would be there, even if it was because of work, and I definitely didn’t think she’d actively seek you out at an event that had nothing to do with you. I just mentioned you as a friend.”   
It’s sincere, as far as Louis can tell. And all with that weird intensiveness Harry has, where he looks so entirely dead focused on you when you speak. That’s how he waits for a response, albeit pensively, which Louis sighs and rubs his forehead before finding.   
  
“It’s whatever about Taylor. We get weird press people around here sometimes, it doesn’t matter to me. I just didn’t get who she was and why she was there to talk to me. Or why you were so… pressed.”   
“She um…” Harry looks down, looking more and more repentant by the second, “She’s a journalist. She’s worked with my friend, Nick, a couple times, so we know each other socially more than professionally…”   
Louis pushes, “Looked like you had history.”

“I did some photos for her before her career took off and mine... hadn’t... even started yet, so…” Harry presses his lips together in a line, shrugging, “Now she likes to parade the fact that she’s doing better and also keep an eye on what I’m doing in case she wants an in… like, interest on the exposure she gave me, or something…”  


“Why didn’t you just say that?”  
He looks confused. Louis elaborates.   
“At the gallery. Or texted me after. You just said goodnight and whatever like it hadn’t happened.”   
Harry pouts like it might help him formulate the words, or at least get his reasoning across without being misunderstood.

“Zayn said to give you space. He obviously knows you better so I just assumed he’d know best and… honestly, with Ondine, I figured you’d be too busy...”

That word touches a nerve, and Louis swiftly recalls the borderline obsessive way he was checking his phone in the middle of the night on the off chance/naive hope that he had missed a clarifying message during the day or even the night before. There’s little understanding left.  
“A text wouldn’t kill me, Harry.”   
“I know, I guess…” he sighs, and Louis wonders if its a ploy, “I just felt really shit about everything. Taylor, and you having to leave, and the exhibition in general.... I was really happy you came… felt like I ruined that.”

  
Maybe it’s the doe eyes. The genuinely convincing remorse. The suggestion that his own presence was some kind of favour, one he hated to lose…   
Louis hates himself for even having to look for excuses to let it go as he sighs, defeated, “It’s not your fault,” followed by a light tease so that Harry doesn’t actually collapse from shame.   
  
“And besides, saw some of your selfies before I left.”   
He frowns, but his eyes widen a little like he might have his own fears about it.   
“My what?”   
“With the little curls? Shouldn’t you know what you’re putting on show?”   
“Oh _nooo_ you weren’t meant to see those! _Fuck!_ ” he exclaims, loud enough for some dancers to look over at them; Harry groaning with his face in his hands, Louis planning his next attack with a grin he can’t help.   
“Cute. Not sure who put them in the same exhibition as your nudes, though. Bit of a jump there.”   


Now Harry looks positively mortified, hand raised to slowly rake through his hair as he stares off into the distance, blankly.   
“I had… decent work up… Stuff I _really_ liked.... And _those_ are the ones you saw…” his voice peaks a little at the end as he physically winces, Louis watching with sick delight. He reaches out to fix the collar of Harry’s shirt before he can think twice about it, not all that concerned whether it actually needed fixing or not. Harry follows the movement.   
“I certainly have no complaints, wouldn’t have known that you have so many tattoos otherwise. Although, you should probably get that second bird done.”   


He quirks his head at him. “Second bird?”  
“On your, up here…you’ve got a bird, right?” Louis taps the space under his own collarbone, equally confused having thought it would be an obvious thing to say. “There should be another one on the other side to make it symmetrical. You look uneven the way it is now.”   
He seems to understand then, immediately revealing dimples with an open-mouthed grin which then softens to something more relaxed, almost sheepish as he clarifies through the side of his mouth, “I’m waiting to do the other one,” like it’s only one piece of a secret. Weird.   
“Oh. Well. Don’t wait too long. Else one will be sagging off your tit while the other one still looks fresh.”   
“I’ll make a note.”

 

Unintentionally, this ordeal confirms the official Moving On part as Louis finds himself warming back up to him, though he still locks away the event to mull over later. When he has time. When Harry’s not there, grinning like mad now. When he’s wearing more clothes.

 

Which reminds him, this is the first time an outsider is privy to this underdressed version of him, skintight rehearsal gear as a result of his currently messy laundry schedule. It was bad enough having it be insinuated that it was an intentional move for Thomas’ sake, but for Harry to see him like this is something else entirely. He decides to steer the conversation towards some answers, catching Harry off-guard.

 

“So, you hung out with Eleanor?”  
“Yeah. We, um, we ran into each other once on the way here, turns out, same route here! Are you close?”

“Me and El-- no, nah. We went to the same dance school for a while ‘til she moved on to train here.”

Harry nods, “She’s really talented. So sweet too…”

 

Louis snorts, quickly adding an explanation, “talented, sure, though she can be _really_ lazy. But _sweet_? Not the word I'd use…”

“What word would you use?”

“A royal pain in the arse.”

Harry grins. “That's a phrase.”

Louis scowls in mock offence, “I can't have a phrase?”

“You can. I only meant, she let me take pictures on her day off, some candids and then actual ballet stuff. Really nice about it, explained some of the moves and things. Did you know you can get through a pair of pointe shoes in one performance?”

“I-- yes, Harry. I did.”

 

The pure look of wonder splits with realisation.

“Ahhh no, of course you did, _shit_! I'm such an idiot. Wow. Sorry Lou, I forgot.”

“No worries. It's good you're excited. Though far from good news if you _forgot_ after watching me dance a couple minutes ago as the main role. It's kind of The Point for you to remember...”

“Fuck I forgot to congratulate you as well, oh my _god_ ,” he grabs his shoulders to pull him closer, which startles both of them, so he passes it off as an awkward pat. “Listen, no, well done, it's so cool you're actually doing this. And I only forgot because you're different when you're dancing, like someone else. Feels like I'm just talking to a mate now, not someone who can actually do that stuff…”

Just a mate. _Just. A. Mate._   
“So this someone else, any critique?”

 

Harry makes a face that's something like shock and awe and amazement, wide eyed with large gestures.

“You were… _really_ good, like… beautiful, breathtaking, oh my _god_.”

He scoffs, “Oh, flattery. You’re trying too hard.”

“It’s well deserved flattery! What would be constructive, I don’t know all the words for that… I really liked it! Or, are you not… Maybe you’re not meant to like it, you’re meant to see like, deeper meanings and stuff or what the artist ate for breakfast or something, that’s what my art teacher said once maybe it’s the same?”  
The rambling train of thought is rapidly becoming another favourite unreasonably charming feature of Harry’s. Louis can’t comprehend how he ever found it annoying.   
  
“We’re only getting used to the choreography still, no time for meanings yet.”   
“Oh, then… You dance... in time with the music... Does that work?”   
“Don’t think I’d keep my job if I didn’t.”   
“Well, job security is important!”   
He rolls his eyes in hopes it offsets how disgustingly fond he sounds saying, “You’re such an idiot,” then, almost bashfully, I’m glad you liked it.”   
“I liked it a lot. But the guy you were dancing with---”

“Thomas.”

“Is he always like that? Are you not scared he’ll drop you?”

“Oh please, like he’d risk it.” Louis scoffs, stopping to reassure him when he still looks concerned. “For real, don't worry.”

Apparently it’s enough, because Harry continues his solemn evaluation.  
“Well, he needs to keep up. Maybe he's in awe too, like me, like the audience will be. It looks like he's trying to control you but can't.”

Louis frowns, “well that's not it at all…”

 

Harry’s just about to open his mouth to counter when the choreographer’s booming voice interrupts the general chatter in the room.  

“Places! Parker, Tomlinson, let's go through that last sequence again!”

 

“Do you have to go?”

It's such a sad tone too. Louis feels his chest tighten but placates the ache with a (these days too frequent) reminder to Calm Down. None of this means anything.

He shrugs, “only one Tomlinson here, Harold.”

“Well, maybe we can go for lunch later? When you're done with… rehearsals, this.”

That sounds like a date. _Calm down._   
“I’ve got rehearsals with my solo coach after this, so…”   
“Dinner, then? My treat?”   
_That. Sounds. Like. A. Date._ He taps the cap of his water bottle anxiously.   
“I can’t, honestly, I’ll be a mess by then.”

Harry pauses, as if that answers a question he hadn’t asked. Louis doesn’t have time to wonder what it means before Harry accepts his losses with a defeated smile.  


“No chance to catch you, is there?”  
“Maybe you missed all your opportunities when you were off stropping, you think of that?”   
“Did I?” he mouths, suddenly alarmed. Louis appeases him.   
“‘Course not. I’ll let you know if I’ve ever got time. We’ll get tea again.”

 _Or you could not calm down at all and continue to entertain this utter fantasy. Fucking brilliant._ _  
_ “Please. Not like… Not like me though, like. Please do actually text me. Sorry… again.”

 

“Swear.”

  
Louis offers a tight smile as Thomas nears them, confusion overtaking the smug expression leftover from whatever interaction he had just left. He stops at the gap between them, angling himself so as to face Harry, blocking Louis in the process.   
  
“Are you press?”   
“Harry Styles, photographer, I’ll be working on promotional material for Ondine. You’re Thomas?”   
Harry’s voice is unusually levelled, a full 180 from all the babbling interactions Louis’ had with him. He holds out his left hand, which bears only one silver ring on his middle finger, and which Thomas shakes a little too firmly than he has to.   
“Parker. Principal male dancer.”   
“We better go,” Louis mutters to Thomas, a mute attempt at dismantling the charged atmosphere as the two men continue their stilted introduction. He ignores him.   


“Are you working now?” Thomas asks, looking him down to point out the absence of a camera and by extension, Harry’s right to be here.   
“Had to stop by for some more paperwork, you know how it is. Correct me if I’m wrong though, Thomas, but isn’t Louis the principal male dancer?”   
Whatever genuinity lay in the exchange dissipates as Thomas grinds his teeth, met only with Harry’s perpetually polite smile. Louis struggles not to snort.   
  
“Places, places! We haven’t got all day…”   
  
“Well it was nice to meet you Thomas, looking forward to working together,” he assures him pleasantly before turning to Louis, voice lowering to a softer, more private tone that makes chills run right down to where he places his hand, in the small of his back.   
“I’ll see you soon, Lou?”   
“Soon, yeah.”   
  
He must look so dazed, gazing as Harry speaks silent volumes in their shared eye contact, walking backwards so as not to break it prematurely. He feels Thomas’ eyes boring into him, the side of his face where his jaw is slack, but it doesn’t quite matter while Harry’s there. Little else quite matters. It takes walking into some latecomer corps dancers for Harry to finally avert his attention, a small panic before he offers a subtle wave and final grin, lightly jogging the rest of the way out.   
  
“Hurry up,” Thomas chides impatiently, although Louis’ not sure which part of the exchange ruffled him the most. In fact, he can definitely relate; the fact that he gets increasingly imprecise throughout rehearsals is hardly a matter of coincidence following Harry’s visit, even though he’d be the first to deny any kind of correlation.

 

The way it’s going, he’s sure to get all three of them fired.


	16. 11. Adagio

Louis is not one to pine, accustomed to being the often apathetic recipient of others’ affections; always charming, never charmed. The apple of his mother's eye, the charismatic (albeit overly chatty) student teachers all praised beyond his grades, the star of each dance recital.

 

Harry though… Harry is something else.

 

The next time they meet, Louis is fresh out of pointe class with no evening rehearsal. He’s happy to answer all of Harry’s slightly strange questions about ballet, to hear out his usually unfunny jokes, happy to even pick at the pastries Harry brings, occasionally shoving a bit into his napkin when he’s busy raving about something he read somewhere.

 

In fact, it seems to last no time at all, ending only when a staff member lets them know they’re about to close, already having started to put up the chairs in hopes they would notice and make their way out themselves. This only cues Harry to spring up and help, engaging them in friendly and entirely genuine discussion about their vendors and how they like working there - Louis would expect nothing less from the man who apologised for almost tripping over a dog on the way there.   
  
But somehow while he’s waiting in the doorway in his coat and Harry’s scarf insistently wrapped around his neck, watching the other man chatting and lifting chairs as if he worked there himself, Louis starts to feel like he might be intruding. Like Harry could be spending his time being delightful with anyone off the street, and he’s wasting his time on Louis, of all people. And yet then he isn’t again, because Harry apologises for keeping them, asks if he’s okay to wait, and when Louis affirms it so he boasts about Ondine to the worker, glowing insider recommendations (that thankfully don’t expose Louis) interspersed with periodic glances and smiles to check in with him.   
  
“So brilliant! I've shadowed a couple of rehearsals and the lead dancer, _wow_ …”

“Really? I've never been one for that theatrical kind of stuff.”

“Honestly, me neither,” Harry smiles, miles more confident across the room with another glance in Louis’ direction, lingering as he admits, “but if you see it… it’d change anyone’s mind…”  
  
The moment is gone as quick as it comes, so much so that Louis genuinely wonders if it happened at all.   
  
*

 

The following week, Louis spontaneously arranges another meet-up after a particularly gruelling rehearsal, doubtful Harry would even be available that late. Yet he texts back minutes later, an ecstatic ‘can’t wait!!!! x. H.’ followed by several frantic updates about looking silly in his casual clothes (which naturally end up looking gorgeous on him anyway).  
  
Then, standing rather gawkily on the foyer, he open with, “Do you know how glad I am to see you?”, looking just about as exhausted as Louis feels. Were it not for his own rough day and now the oddest urge to tuck Harry in to bed, Louis might try harder to hold back his affections, instead standing on his toes to wrap his arms around Harry’s shoulders, which look even broader with his hair up. He sinks into it automatically, moving heavy hands, from where they hung dead by his sides, to Louis’ waist, as if it were their natural resting place. Louis finds that he’s too tired to feel it bother him.

  
“Why, you missed me?” he murmurs, muffled by Harry’s t-shirt. Harry breaks away to study him, albeit through half-lidded eyes, and still attached at the hip.   
“I… have been... looking at contact sheets... _all... day…_ ” he groans, the memory apparently too painful upon recall, and Louis wants to pull him in closer. “You’re literally the first human face I’m seeing since last night…” Harry muses, now moving to cup Louis face with one hand, thumb hooking into his cheekbone with faux-woe, “You’re... so... beautiful.”

Louis wrinkles his nose. “Gross. This date is cancelled.”  
He cocks his head at him, but more pleasantly confused than teasing. “Didn’t realise that’s what it was...”   
“Well.” Louis retorts, feeling like he’d just backed himself into a corner.   
“Well?”   
“Keep up.”

 

The cafe is closed by then, so Louis drags him to a nearby Starbucks that Harry’s too tired to turn his nose at. With barely anyone there, they grab a loveseat tucked away into the corner, and sit half on top of each other after Louis orders himself a black tea and Harry the most obnoxious sounding item on the menu, which he ends up loving. Louis asks him one question about photography and Harry half-consciously mumbles about focal length for a solid twenty minutes, occasionally stopping to sip his drink and make sure Louis is having fun on their ‘date… because… it is a date, you said’ (he says it this way every time).

 

Louis doesn’t mind. Harry’s ponderous way of speaking has grown on him as much as, if not more, the stammering version, and it’s a remarkably calming mechanism when he gets a sudden, fleeting worry. The constancy of it. The predictability. Add to that the warmth, the pliabile adjustability to fit anytime Louis moves, and it all sums up to this great grounding force he wishes he could keep around for any while longer. Surely longer than he deserves.

  
“Sorry I’m so useless…” Harry sighs later, gradually inching under Louis’ arm, “Feel like… Sooo tired…”   
“Nah,” he cuts him off, curiously running his thumb over the baby hairs at the base of his head, just too short to make it up into his bun. “I’m sorry for calling you out so late.”   
“You kidding? Would’ve come if… what’s that, that’s nice…”   
“My jumper.”   
“Sooo nice…” He continues to stroke his chest, like it helps him think. “What was I saying?”   
“You would’ve--”   
“I would’ve come if it was… hmm… 3am!”   
“3am?”   
“4am! What’s a crazy time for you?”   
“Right now, honestly.”   
“You’re so funny, Louis. Funny and busy. I did miss you. I missed you.”   
“I missed you too.”   


He starts wishing he’d had a drink by the time they’re walking out, stomach feeling like it’s actively being ground up. Maybe he could have a one night stand and Louis would have an indisputable reason to drop him, along with the related accumulation of messy feelings. Then he could detach, having dealt with the attraction (which, admittedly, was growing ever more difficult to ignore), and move past this desperate daydream. A relationship? As if.  
  
“Are you okay getting home?”   
Harry grins, and demonstrates walking in a straight line flawlessly. He bows, then tries to spin with Louis in hand before stopping to reassure him when he doesn’t give.   
“I’m not drunk, just sleepy. And I’m proper awake now, see? I’ll ask someone for directions if I need some help…”   
Louis stares at him incredulously. “No? This isn’t middle of wherever you’re--”   
“Holmes Chapel.”   
“That. You call me if you get lost.”   


 

Harry wanted to kiss him at the station then, Louis could tell. His eyes, the way he looked at him, the may his body smoothed and curved to face his body, tilted the slightest bit to reach closer to him. The same way Louis has perfected for all the lovers he’s danced, the straight and powerful and dominant princes that sweep doting damsel off their feet. But Louis is no such thing. Madame chastises him for slipping into dominance to make up for Thomas lagging behind, when Ondine is really more like Louis than he’d care to admit. And that’s what scares him the most, the way he responds and adjusts in line with Harry. They should really just fuck.  
  
**

 

“You’re not going to solve your real issues by sleeping with a man you obviously care about,” Niall chastises him the morning after, hastily summoned to Louis’ apartment with all of his course work in hand before Louis has to go to rehearsal.  
“My issue is the man.”

“Your issue is your inability to deal with feelings deeper than lust.”

“It's not any deeper than lust.”

Niall groans, setting down his laptop on the coffee table, some cryptic mess of algorithm Louis would rather die than peruse.

 

“Why isn't Zayn here? He's way better at this than me…”

“You're… Competent.”

“And you're a bloody liar. We both know I just tell you to suck their dick and that's clearly not the solution here. Have you had another fight?”

Maybe. “No.”

“Lou…”

“I don't know. We're just not talking right now, maybe he's busy.”

“ _I’m_ busy. Never stopped you before.”

“Then tell me what to do and you can get back to whatever that is, alright? My issue is with Harry, not Zayn.”

Niall frowns, though it melts into an expression of intense thought. Then, clicking his pen, he announces simply;

 

“Suck his dick.”  
  
*

 

Now Louis’ slumped on his bathroom floor, debating breakfast before he sees his solo coach. Niall’s advice, if you can even call it that, twists in his mind, a tempting though unsatisfactory thought in the face of what could potentially be the beginning phases of an especially pathetic crush.

 

The keyword here is phases. Just like that time he thought he could grow out his hair. Or when Zayn talked him into their matching screw tattoos, little x’s on the ankle bone. Or the emo poetry Harry recounted writing in his teens…

 

_You're missing the point._

 

He slips on another pair of sweatpants. The ‘sunny spell’ weather forecast must’ve had London, Ohio in mind because Louis rarely has to double up bottoms like this. Perhaps he hasn't got the balance quite right yet. Breakfast consists of the remaining glass’ worth of orange juice, which stings like hell down the throat but tastes miles better than both its predecessor and the cigarette he has later while mulling over what he should do about Harry. 117.

 

He's just about to light another when the answer arrives with the sound of a text alert.

 

 _How do you feel about going out again? x_   
  
An excellent question. He balances the cigarette between his teeth as he types out a witty response he deletes as soon as he finishes because it looks too long. As if Harry needs more hints that he’s an obsessive mental case… Two words will do. Nice and concise.   


**_ask zayn_ **

  
Harry wastes no time replying; _Zayn says yes_ _  
_ _  
_ Louis grants him the same courtesy.   
  
**_you actually asked ?_ **

_I was hoping I chamre dhim enough at the exhibition for him to just agree later?_ _  
__*charmed_ _  
_**_nice_** ** _  
_**_do you actually have to ask him?_ _  
_**_no . but its easier to blame him than my schedule_** ** _  
_**_I can work with your schedule!_ _  
__  
_ Like hell he can. Louis doesn’t need to feel worse than he already does by dragging him out past his bedtime again.  
_  
_**_w/ my solo coach all day_** ** _  
_**_I’ll come charm them to let you go early?_ _  
_**_might work . . ._** ** _  
_**_It will. it’ll be_ _a surprise attack they won’t even see it coming_ ** _  
_******_as long as its me and not him . hate surprises_

 **_  
_ ** ***   
  
“Louis hates surprises. You need to at least ask before showing up.” Zayn states simply about an hour before, an unshakeable focus on the thick linework he’s tattooing on a disturbingly buff man’s left shoulder blade. Niall scoffs.   
“He works there now, can’t he be like, ‘oh, whoops, haha, meetings, amiright’?”   
“Louis has one-on-one class on Sundays when he’s principal, like all day. It’s his thing.”   
“So?”   
“So, I don’t know if his ‘ _Madame’_ , works then. Who I assume would be your fake meeting cover, so, it’s dumb just to show up.”   
“Could you ask?” Harry asks tentatively, spinning his rose ring around his finger. Zayn moves his foot off the pedal to punctuate the silence, raising an eyebrow at him.   
“You have a rib tattoo and half a chest piece and you’re pussying out of talking to a _boy_ you like?”   
Niall snorts, picking up another flash book to flip through. “Have you met him?”   
Zayn considers.   
“Fair. But I couldn’t help you even if I wanted to.”

 

The rapid buzzing reappears as Zayn puts his foot down, Niall making a series of disgruntled faces at an already defeated Harry. He seems to come to a realisation then, mouthing a secretive ‘ooooh’ before leaning on Zayn’s cling-wrapped side table to watch his face when he presses further.  
“Did you have another fight?”   
Zayn groans, unfazed by the growly whimpering as he wipes the man’s skin down. Neither Niall and Harry say anything, a subtle push that finally forces him to expose what he’s been thinking about non-stop for the past four days.   


“Fine. Yeah. You happy?”  
“I FUCKING KNEW IT!” Niall squeals, receiving a death glare from the other tattoo artist there, which swiftly hushes him down to a low, equally celebratory whisper, “sorry, sorry… _I fucking knew it…._ ”   
“I was joking about being happy. Thanks.”   
“What happened?” Harry asks, a grumble of mulled thought. Zayn sighs.   
  
“Something about Shahid. Cussed him out so I told him to fuck off.”   
Niall makes a face, “Who’s Shahid?”   
“This new art guy. We met at Harry’s gallery show thing. You must’ve gone by then…”   
“What did Shahid do?”   
“Nothing Harry. He didn’t do shit. But fucking princess Louis likes things a certain way so he picks ungrounded, petty fights about absolute bollocks and then blames it on everyone but himself when he feels like fucking shit for it...”   
“You know that’s not fair Zayn…” Niall mutters quietly, a nervous reprimand.

He doesn’t reply, just sprays down a paper towel to clean the excess ink off as Niall and Harry stand waiting patiently. When the man’s mumbled discomfort subside, Zayn shakes his head.  
  
“I’m washing my hands of this conversation. If you want to talk to Louis, talk to Louis, and if you don’t know how yet, you need to figure it out in your own time. I’m not his translator.”   
  
Niall shrugs, reoccupying himself in looking through the other artists’ flash. Harry bites his lip, still watching the slow, methodical movements of the tattoo gun. He gets up to walk around, think some more by himself, but then Zayn sighs, and the foot pedal eases again.   
  
“Bring him some lunch, though. Bloody idiot always works himself too hard when it’s just him working…”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is such a side chapter lmao sorry, and with such a wait between the last one...
> 
> Honestly come back in three years when this is done I'm such a wreck when it comes to keeping a schedule with Corps. I am writing other stuff though and I hope it doesn't take me three years to finish this.
> 
> Thank you as always for reading. xx


	17. Chapter 17

Harry walks a half-step behind Louis until they make it to the glass case elevators, where they skip the queue of gangly guests waiting for the rest of their party to show up. Louis tries not to think about the fact the security man has more expensive shoes than he does, or that he himself looks like he’s going out to pick up groceries next to the impeccably dressed Harry (more obvious now that they’re outside), who might as well be going to his own movie premiere. As they enter the lift and each floor zooms past he wonders how anyone even thought they were there together as to him, they couldn’t be more mismatched.

He works it out a minute later, when they step out onto the terrace and in the cool night air he feels just how close Harry is to him, a hand practically levitating over the small of his back where it should rightly be as he again hangs back a half-step, just to let him walk in first. They spot Zayn and Niall before Louis can say anything.

“Surprise!” Niall yells, much to the dismay of everyone around him, groups of posh couples and fancy cocktail party businessmen turning heads with frowns and tuts. It doesn’t faze him though, far more shattered by the rueful admission that follows a downcast Harry.  
“I may have exposed the plan…”   
He stares with undiluted betrayal, eyes squinting all kinds of upset.   
“Does the sanctity of a _surprise_ mean _nothing_ to you?!”   
As Harry tries to explain and Niall’s voice travels even higher Zayn takes a step towards Louis, who meets him halfway after a considering pause. Zayn speaks first.   
  
“Hello Louis.”   
“Hello Zayn.”

He doesn’t like this part. Admitting fault, being wrong, making steps that expose an uncontrolled, honest vulnerability. Zayn doesn’t like it either, but he’s better at this and knows it, knows it’s something Louis can’t quite bring himself to do yet, even if it’s all he wants.   
  
“Mates, yeah?”   
  
He knows the answer. He wonders for how long it’ll stay true.   


“Mates.”  
  
They embrace, and Louis feels his chest drop, a fierce tenseness he didn’t know had accumulated released into this circuit. He feels Harry’s eyes glance over, then a thump of Niall joining in.   
  
“Friends! Smashing! Come over here Hazza, don’t wanna leave you out…”   
  
They stand like that for far too long.   
  
**   
  
“Are you ready to order?”

Zayn looks desperately at Harry to do it, knowing full well Niall experience of ordering stretches only to the shitty Nandos down the street. He’s too late though, Niall already                                                                                                    rubbing elbows with the waitress who looks less than thrilled, sleekly dressed with a nametag reading ‘Victoria’ pinned perfectly straight onto her lapel.  
  
“Cheers love yeah, we’ll have, what are we having lads?”   
Zayn takes this opportunity to intervene, “Citrus mojito--”   
“You sure you don’t want a Spicy Mistress Zayn? Hahaha! Only a joke man, calm down,”   
“Niall--” Harry tries.   
“Right sorry Vicky, that’ll be the citrus mojito for Zayn, Pornstar for me, haha! Great name, who does the names here?”   
“Management, sir. Anything else?”   
“Great names. Oh my favourite one, I’ve been waiting for this!”   
“Niall maybe I should--”

Louis preemptively drops his face into his hands, not even bothering to try to restrain Niall. Harry is not so lucky, apparently retaining some false hope that the boy will stop himself for all of their sakes and save him the embarrassment, which appears in an even red shade over his face.   
“Harry and Louis here would like to have Sex on the roof! HAHAHA! BRILLIANT!”   
“I’m so sorry about him, he doesn’t mean to be like this...”   
“I just find it funny can’t anybody find anything funny anymore? Anyway, food--”   
Zayn is successful this time, a yelp indicating he’s just kicked Niall under the table.   
“We haven’t decided yet, can we have the drinks first?”   
Victoria just looks grateful.   
“Of course.”

Not even a full two click-clacks out of earshot Niall stands from his seat to lean in as far as physically possible, yet still chooses to stage-whisper, “Zayn and I are on, place your bets.”  
If Zayn had his drink, he would probably spit it out.   
“Sorry, we are ‘on’ what, exactly?”   
“A challenge. Whoever gets Vicky’s number by the end of the night wins.”   
Louis snorts as Harry raises an eyebrow and Zayn looks on utterly bewildered.   
“I don’t want ‘Vicky’s’ number, why am I being involved in your vaguely problematic shenanigans?”   
“It’s no competition if it’s just me, and you’re the straightest I’ve got! Just look at what else I’ve got to work with…”   
“Rude.” Louis notes, flipping through the menu with a calculating analysis. He hasn’t decided how he’s going to handle this one yet.   
  
“Speaking of the gays--”   
“Did I say vaguely? I think I was being too nice…”   
“No one’s talking about you, Zayn, sucking dick doesn’t even make you gay anymore they have to raise the entry requirements now so that all the closeted lad-lads can sleep at night and wake up in denial…”   
Louis interjects, “What are you talking about? You do talk some shit you know…”   
“Tell me that’s not that one’s life! What’s his name? Like? Johnny or something?”   
“Who?”   
“The main man asshole after Louis’ asshole.”   
“Jesus Christ...”   
“Wow, okay Louis, I know I’m not a practicing Catholic but…”   
Harry frowns, more out of confusion than anything else, “Thomas?”   
“Yeah yeah! I thought it was William, where am I getting William from?”   
“My middle name?”   


“Not everything is about you Louis gosh… Although…” his face morphs into the widest of grins, sitting back in his chair with an accomplished tone in his voice, “Sometimes, it is! Like this party!”

“If you call anyone over here to sing a song I will literally stop speaking to you. A lifetime of friendship gone.” He knows Zayn will at least back him up in this matter. Niall must know it too.  
“Pictures at least! Otherwise Jay won’t get off our bloody case!”

He can’t help but frown at the mention, his one weakness a gateway for the omnipresent guilt to seep back in like treacle he won’t ever be able to scrape out. He nods.

Harry must have watched his expressions change as he’s tentative with the camera, only taking a couple of shots of the trio once Louis grants a permissive glance. He follows all of Niall’s weird instructions and position set-ups, engaging just above the bare minimum as he starts to feel the pounding rush of blood his head. The photoshoot ceases once the drinks arrive and Niall switches his attention to performing an elaborate toast.   
  
“I’ve never done a posh toast but since the Royal Ballet dickheads decided that ‘There’s a First for Everything’ I guess we should crack on!”   
“Niall…” Zayn groans as Niall stands bolt-straight, just loud enough to grab the interest of the nearest tables’ radius of party guests. Undeterred, he continues to profess theatrically.   
“Not many would choose to spend the best years of their life training otherwise useless tiny muscles just to spend most of their money on their tiny London apartment with barely any company or industry recognition! I mean, in this day and age, certainly this economy, you would think to work towards a degree that will get you a job you can depend on past the ripe old age of 30 - and that’s if you’re lucky - but I digress. Louis fucking Tomlinson here, ‘bout to put the ‘d’ in Ondine! Not like that, but in a female-focused field that’s pretty dope still!”   
  
The surrounding tables murmur, unsure whether to applaud as Niall’s jovial tone seems to demand. Louis grins gratefully all the same.

  
“Cheers mate.”   
“Anytime! Now, back to the competition segment of the night, I hope you’re on top of your game Zayn, because I’m feeling _victorious_ !”   
  
Louis downs his drink before excusing himself from the table, consciously avoiding the no doubt pained and pleading expression on Zayn’s face. Only a couple of steps away from the bar all the happy tipsy chatter is muted by the gentle lilt of the breeze, a cool rather than biting force. He takes the low steps towards the viewing area, closing his eyes to the spectacular view as he leans against the banisters that separate him from an unfortunate fall or jump.

“Do you like it?”

He doesn't have to snap around to know that it's Harry, doing so anyway to gain that pretty picture with the husky voice, remarkably clear in the distant bustle of all the ongoing parties and the wind as the outdoor lighting system draws specific attention to the high contours of his face, a fact that only makes Louis more uncomfortable himself. He’s holding Louis’ coat rather than his drink, which is what Louis had expected, and it must show in his face as Harry immediately provides an explanation.

“Cold. And windy. Didn't want you to get blown away…”

Louis snorts, _if only,_ “Do sexual innuendos just follow you around or?”

He smiles sheepishly, instinctively running his hand through his hair, which is slowly losing its initial impact as the London weather tests the seal of his hairspray.

“I guess so.”

Louis can't believe he's thinking about hairspray at a time like this.

He takes a minute to slip his coat on, immediately grateful for the artificial warmth that placates a numbness he hadn't himself caught up with. Harry joins him onlooking St Paul's, lit by beam-like night lights that seek to illuminate the natural architecture without overshadowing it.

“Do you like it? The view?” He asks again, more tentatively, as if he's not sure he deserves an answer. Louis squints in an attempt to summon his inner critic, and perhaps speaks too frankly with the first thing that comes into his head.

“It's nice. Reminds me of my fire of London project in Year 2...”

Harry's face drops in disappointment, “Is it _that_ bad?”

“No! Although I reject the implication that my project was bad, I know I’m not artistically inclined like you are but…”  
“Nothing personal! Just a Year 2 thing!”   
He can’t help but smile at the immediate defence, answering more consciously now, “This is nice. Can't say I can appreciate all the architectural aspects and what not but… Nice.”

Harry breathes again and the moment of silence grabs Louis with a vengeance. He immediately starts to comb back through his last words, a habitual search for flaws so consuming that he almost misses Harry’s next thought.

“Dance is like art though. Everytime I see you it makes me think and feel like art does...” Harry catches himself, a runaway track of thought he hadn't quite meant to

speak aloud. He's instantly embarrassed, “That sounded so lame…”

“What do you mean?”

He frowns, confused, “I just told you you make me ‘think and feel’ can you imagine saying that to someone with a straight face?”

“‘Like art does’, what do you mean by that?”

He frowns again, brows furrowed and mouth pursed in a way that shouldn't simultaneously be alluring and endearing. Another nervous hand drawn through the hair, dropping eye contact as Louis realises his steel gaze may be misread as intimidating. He tries to soften up.

“Bad habit. In your own time…”

“I don't know, how to explain I guess? You're an art kid too so you know how vague things are in that abstract space where you can feel what you're feeling but you can't say it, so you make it into art…”

“I haven't… I've never been an ‘art kid’” he exaggerates the air quotes, and Harry looks at him as intently as ever, “dance is more methodical for me. Silent.”

“You don't feel it?”

He can't lie to him, he realises. With barely enough time to consider the repercussions of such careless confessions, he’s hearing himself speak truths he’s fallen out of practice of saying.  
  
“I feel like, tired? And sore? I feel my feet hurt and my muscles ache and I feel when I haven’t got enough force or momentum for a spin but I don’t… I don’t know!” he laughs, half-nervous and half collecting time to backtrack, “I haven’t thought about it that way before…”   
Harry looks on incredulously, “But, the way you dance! When you do Ondine, it feels like a real person you could… you don’t feel yourself creating that?”   
“Well… no?”

He feels like he's disappointing Harry, as much as he is offering the truth. The man he so uncharacteristically wants to impress nods politely, glancing back to the dome of the cathedral, each identical curve highlighted by the absence of fluorescent light. In an effort to relate, he tries to verbalize a stance he's rarely been asked about expecting a legitimate answer.

“Okay, like, with characters it’s like a mirror, you take what they tell you or what the greats have done and you do that as much as you physically can. I can dream to dance Fonteyn’s Ondine as much as I want but I need the practical aspects to even get close; you're nothing without the control, the precision…”

“You don’t ever lose control?”  
The mere suggestion is an offence. Louis snorts.   
“I’d rather die.”

Harry considers, mulling it over just long enough for Louis to feel unsettled by his own sincerity before he turns to face him, almost straight on, and there’s a sense of challenge in his eyes as they meet Louis’.  
“Would you ever give it away?”   
  
He senses a shift.   
  
“What are you saying?”   
“Can I kiss you?”   
  
There’s no hesitance in the way it’s spoken, so fluid and confident that Louis is too baffled trying to relate it to the same person he’s known to stutter and stop so often with him.   
  
“That’s… that’s what you’re asking?”   
“Yes.”

He finds it then, that trace of apprehension that tinges an otherwise bold affirmation, a quality he’s beginning to think only comes up in relation to him, in itself a bizarre thought. He thinks vaguely to answer before his head fills to brim with what feels like concrete he can’t wade through with a clear line of thought, the dizzy routine sneaking up on him despite the relatively average physical strain.

 _  
_ _Of course something like this would happen now..._   
  
He grips the banister to concentrate the weight onto something that won’t collapse, a defiant disregard for the stabbing pain in his chest as he begs for a full inhalation. Harry’s never looked so distressed.

“Shit, sorry, is that? I shouldn’t have said anything, honestly, forget I ever--”  
Louis forces a chuckled “Fuck Harry, get over yourself!”, lucky to squeeze even that into the shallow breath he’s limited to but desperate to de-escalate what is ultimately a rightfully concerning moment. He gestures to the direction they came in, Harry taking a second to decipher and then clumsily setting them down on one of the elevated steps. Louis is careful not to audibly wince.

“Should I get Zayn? I don’t know, he’s probably--”  
Louis shakes his head with a feverish grin he can’t quite help, the thought of Zayn or Niall being informed of what’s happening so remarkably unfunny that he’s positively shocked he can halt Harry’s better judgement with a reassuring, albeit laboured, “all good.”

“Is this okay? Are you, I mean, you? I don’t know what this is are you having a heart attack?”  
“Lightheaded. No worries.”

He looks the furthest thing from ‘Not Worried’; paler even than Louis, leg blurred by the way he taps it nervously, hands itching to do anything from calling ten different ambulances to performing invasive surgery himself if either would be any help. An undoubtedly excruciating experienced half hour (but an objective 2 minutes) later, Louis laughs more easily, placing his own hand over Harry’s as if to point out how unreasonably jittery he is. The point would be much clearer if his own hand wasn’t trembling as well, though Harry is too alarmed to notice.  
  
“Is this just a thing that happens? Like a family condition new people get freaked out by but everyone else knows about and it looks more scary than it is?”   
He can’t help the lie when it’s handed to him on a silver platter, an excuse he’ll never have to clarify.   
“Something like that. Chronic migraines; the medication causes more problems than it solves...”   
Harry nods as if to convince himself it’s an adequate explanation to appease the stress it’s caused him, “Yeah. Right, yeah…” he considers, “Can’t they give you something else? I mean, dizziness with dancing… though, I guess you weren’t joking about ‘dancing with anything’…”

He grins something bashful, testing the theory that Louis is as Okay as he claims and, satisfied with the tight smiles he receives in return, proceeds in a much calmer tone,

  
“Do you want water? Or maybe food, we could go back and order…”   
The brief rest makes Louis quicker on his feet.   
“Actually, feel a bit sick. I should get going…”   
“I can drive you?”   
“You don’t have to…”   
“It was a party for you. I came for you. And, I drove you here so I’m your default ride. And I have to insist because I’m still kind of terrified that like, what if you feel dizzy again on the tube and you fall on the tracks and--”   
“Okay.”

  
It’s not his first time leaving without warning and it won’t be his last. Harry unwillingly lets him wait by the elevator (only after Louis insists he’ll be fine standing unsupervised for a short period of time) as Harry runs back in with an explanation for Zayn and Niall and to retrieve his own coat. The way down is a similar tentative silence to the one Louis has felt in each goodbye sequence of the ‘dates’ they've had so far, but there is no clean cut finality to this time. Something has changed, and he's not sure whether it's Harry’s question, still hanging unanswered, or a mishap on his part.

His phone buzzes just as he’s about to do his seatbelt. A text from Niall.

**_you dirty bastard!  was jokin bt the sex on the roof but whatever works !! stay safe xxxxxx_ **

He turns to Harry as the man closes his own door, having followed traditional gentlemanly protocol which let Louis settle in first but also ultimately took twice as long. He can’t help but feel tired of all the ‘proper’ conduct, tempted to test if it's the only facet Harry’s got. It’s a plan as careful as any.

Harry pulls in and offers to walk him upstairs, Proper. Louis let's him open his car door for him although it makes him grind his teeth a little, half irritated and half anticipating. They take the lift, because that's Harry’s natural inclination and it's Louis’ turn to watch him. They walk to Louis’ number 17, Harry another half-step back, and just as he’s about to bid a painfully Proper and curt goodnight, Louis grabs him by the coat and kisses him a little too hard than he should. Harry pulls back.  
  
“Louis--?”   
“You asked.”   
  
Louis pulls him back in, coaxing out a low groan with his bottom lip between his teeth as he fiddles with the lock with his other hand. He’s pent up so much blatant, cold desire the past couple weeks that the result feels disappointing; just a kiss, as nice as it is, that doesn’t deliver the ungrounded expectations Louis had set for it. Harry’s initial efforts to remain composed are quickly flouted as Louis drags him into the apartment, frantically clinging onto both the edges of the various layers he’s and the addictive drive to satisfy expectations. Harry cuts him off again just as he’s making an obscene-sounding trip up his neck to the base of his jaw.   
  
“Fuck, Louis no, wait…”   
He answers manic with power, “Yes?”, almost mocking with his hold over Harry, who struggles to get his point across with Louis’ hand pending at his zipper.   
He might just get enough of a rush from this.   
  
“Just… hold on. Are you okay? What if you feel sick again?”   
“Sick of you stalling…”   
“What?”   
  
He shouldn’t snap. The back-tracking is easy enough for him to get too comfortable when he’s on a high like this.   
“Nothing. Sorry. I’ll stop. Forget it.”   
“No I’m just… I don’t know, I don’t do stuff like this…”   
  
A real moment of clarity, the implications biting deep. To his credit, Harry seems to recognise them as soon as he speaks them, the atmospheric shift made more apparent as Louis backs off with a somehow domineering stance, folding his arms as if they’re ignorant to their very recent placement.   
  
“Stuff like…? Wow, yeah, neither do I. Course. I was just going to offer you coffee. Fuckin’ mates yeah?”   
“That’s not… It’s not that I don’t want to, right, because trust me…” he makes a point to gaze, “I do. But you’re already not feeling well and you’ve had a drink so...”   
“I get it. Not gonna argue with you like that.”   
“I don’t want you to take it the wrong way.”   
“Like how?”

Of all the things he’s undoubtedly worst at rejection, hence why he channels the excess adrenaline into rather aggressively cleaning up the shit he’s abandoned in the corridor, walking it over to chuck in the open plan living room, Harry following each journey as they talk.

“I really like you, Louis. Not like, ‘mates’... but not like this either.”  
  
He sounds much softer, though it’s likely the comparison to Louis’ freezing bluntness that makes it so profound. Louis throws a pillow, stopping to face him with hands on his hips.   
  
“How then?”   
“Like we’ve been doing.”   
Louis scoffs, “just dates? I don’t know how to do that. I don’t have _time_ to do that...”   
“You don’t have to do anything different. I know you were gearing towards.... this direction but at least try my way and let me change your mind.”

He looks much softer too, a naïve kind of hopefulness Louis should have seen coming before he ever got himself involved. There was no way this could ever follow the same way every other infatuation has. He should have seen it coming. In the gentle eyes and hands and words, in genuine interest and time and accommodating plans. This was always going to be something else, and it might just be too late to stop the tracks that lead it so.   


“Who says I want my mind changed?”  


“You do. You have. I’m still here aren’t I?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that was the first instalment of the regular-writing chapters, much longer than usual lowkey to apologise for all the waiting but also because the other thing I’ve been working on isn’t chaptered so I kind of kept writing and writing with this one too...
> 
> Anyway, as I’ve mentioned in the comments I’m planning to actually commit to this during the summer starting now, to the point where I acc have a timetable now can you believe !! It shall remain undisclosed to save me embarrassment when I inevitably fall behind but I feel the structure will help kick my arse into gear so I can finally finish this piece of shit which, I’m very surprised, people seem to like??? 
> 
> I warn now that I’m much more equipped to write all the pain and drama than people getting frisky so if you’re expecting that 1. not quite the story you want and 2. not quite the writer you want
> 
> In any case, thank you as always for reading and your patience with me in these trying times.
> 
> xx


	18. Chapter 18

He only wakes up because he must have forgotten to draw the curtains, what with an uncharacteristically sunny morning now casting light directly over his pillow as if personally offended by his sleep-wake cycle. Kicking the covers off reveals he's still wearing yesterday's sweater, a fact he takes a minute to consider before he also realises that it's the wrong time of year for it to be this bright so early in the morning, unless…

8:49am

Unless he’s late for class.

With unfounded energy he bounds out of bed, running maniacally around his apartment trying to accomplish ten individual tasks at once in half their usual time span. Any other day and he would kill whoever tied his pointe shoes together by the ribbon so that each shoe hangs like the dead carcass of a small mammal strung up by its tail (a description so graphic it's been extremely effective in keeping Zayn and Liam from doing so in the past, less so Niall), but now they're hung around his neck like a medal as he juggles his keys, phone and oyster card in his free hand, his kit bag in the other. He’s just about to kick open the door were it not for the fact that they open in front of him, revealing an array of Tesco bags held by none other than Harry fucking Styles.

He can't believe he forgot about that.

“You’re in a rush!" he exclaims, as if it weren't evident by the fact his shoes aren't even tied (he had decided to tie them on the train). “I thought I’d make breakfast--”

“Class! Sorry, I’m late. Maybe another time…”

The thrill of having evaded that particular situation soothes how irritating it is that he’s slipped off schedule. That said, it seems to come with a new brand of guilt as Harry dances between the decision to come in or leave  himself.  

“How about dinner then? If you don't mind me hanging around your apartment that is. I've already done the shopping and you talked about being tired last night, so I doubt you have time for homemade meals by the time you get home from work…”

“Time, sure,” he shoves his keys into one of Harry’s hands, his head beginning to fuzz again as his pulse quickens at the mention of the studio, “Love you, bye.”

He acknowledges Harry say something, but he finds that he can't quite hear what it is.

 

**

 

He doesn't burst into the studio as much as he’d like, but even a glimpse of his presence has the same impact on the room’s atmosphere with Alberto waving him to the back to warm up, the class now in full motion. Madame doesn't even look at him.

It's an immense struggle to keep himself from rushing, knowing full well it would only make it worse. He takes immense care to slow each stretch down, an overly conscious and methodical treatment of a usually absent-minded task, but he knows all too well letting his mind wander now is just asking for a pull or tear. His arch is substantially weaker than, say, Eleanor’s, and the fact that he can't catch up in terms of strength is the painstaking backing track to every moment he is en Pointe.

By the time he’s warmed up class is finishing. He tries to follow the last couple minutes from the back, harkening back to his troublemaker kid days, only made full notice of at the end when Alberto dismisses the class for a break and groups of dancers exit right past him. He grabs the opportunity to intrude.

“Sir, I’m sorry--”

“You need to come to Class, Louis. You know that, yes?”

Alberto speaks in an uncomfortably level tone, one that hints at an underlying pity unique to him as an instructor. He packs up his bags with his back to him, collected in a practiced rather than cold way like Madame would be.

“Yes.” He’s too kind to be forced to listen to any of Louis’ shitty excuses.

“You're very good. You could be great. But if you start to lose your grasp now they’ll eat you alive. Are you losing your grasp?”

Before Louis can answer he turns around, a solemn look that pleads for honesty. But Louis’ been through enough concerned questions to know how to answer.

“No sir, just slipped up. Back on track tomorrow.”

Alberto pauses, as if offering a chance for him to elaborate. When he doesn't, he nods.

“I’ll see you, on time, tomorrow.”

“Yes sir.”

 

**

 

Louis spends the break for lunch going over the scenes they’re about to rehearse in one of the smallest studios, generally uninterrupted by the other dancers often found sitting in large cross-legged swarms, laughing and eating. Eleanor, usually heading these gatherings, surprises him about half an hour before rehearsal starts when she comes in and starts silently watching, perched cross-legged on the floor. He tolerates it for the sake of concentration but abandons all hope barely five minutes in, stopping in the middle of a sequence with hands on hips.

“What?”

She cocks her head to feign interest, “Are you gonna do that with a full house too?”

He scoffs, picking up where he left off with a lame duck and what he hopes is a scalding tone;

“The difference lies in motive. A full house would watch for entertainment, or to seem cultured, or to write a cutting review in a shitty free paper, but you? No clue why you're here.”

“Just wondering why they picked you. Came for tips but your arch is terrible and you just look drab… Maybe I’ll just stick to going to class…”

“You want to read me for being late, be my guest, but get ready to wait in line…”

She drops the sarcastic lilt immediately.

“What the fuck happened, Lou? All those nights of partying back when you were fun--”

“Thanks.”

“-- none of that could shake you. What happened to you last night?”

A multiple, just scraping a triple; he loses his place on the wall.

“I don't know. Harry took me home.”

Her eyes widen, clearly taken aback.

“Promo photographer Harry? Jesus, you fucking him now?”

“No.” another multiple, “but I wish I was. Then I could just get over it and run…”

“Sounds healthy. So you just overslept?”

“Basically.”

She purses her lips in disappointment before stretching out her legs in front of her, twisting each calf to inspect her own arches. Her tone levels to a measured curiosity.

“Harry’s nice. You think maybe you could be a thing?” “Why?” a full triple, “you want him for yourself?”

She shoots him a glare, one he mockingly returns, and re-crosses her legs expertly.

“No time for a full-time boyfriend when I have to baby your fucking ass. I’m asking because I know he likes you a lot. Like a scary lot for how you act towards him. So I'm looking out for him, yeah?”

“Okay. Understood.”

“Besides,” she smirks, “if I wanted in with him I wouldn't waste my time asking what you thought.”

He finishes his scene just as the call for a company rehearsal goes off. Eleanor hands him his water bottle.

“Cheers.”

 

**

 

“Are you cracking yet, Tomlinson?”

“You wish.”

He holds his breath as Thomas lifts him up, knowing full well it’s not going to be quite high enough but refusing to slack himself, especially not after the morning he’s had. Simon waves frantically for them to stop, taking Thomas aside for what looks like a stern talking to.

If anyone’s cracking it's him.

He takes a swig of water to drown what is the naïve hunger of a broken schedule, hoping it might numb the throbbing in his hamstrings as well. Thomas is back at his side sooner than he’d like, impressively more nonchalant than when they'd started.

Whatever threat had been placed upon him seems to have worked though, as the clean technique Louis had witnessed in past productions featuring Thomas makes a swift return as they wrap up the last pas deux, ready for Eleanor’s run through. He gets a satisfied nod from Simon as criticism and pardon, so he takes a seat against the floor length mirror. The next sequence starts.

 

**_Louis William Tomlinson who is Harry and why is he in your apartment taking calls_ **

****

A text that almost makes him choke. If only he could be wiped off the face of the planet by the force of his own will, seeing those words under his mother's contact name would surely do the trick. He sits up and with shaking hands tries to clear up the potentially fatal misconceptions bred by this one mistake.

 

**a friend staying over . dw**

 

Her reply comes alarmingly fast. The thought of a recent conversation between her and said “friend” only further twists his stomach.

 

_**What does that mean “dw”? Who do you think I am** _

 

**sorry mum . i didnt know youd call today**

_**Lou, if he’s your boyfriend you know you can say. I’d be happy if he was; he sounded lovely over the phone!** _

__

Not the conversation for now, or ever. He can only vaguely acknowledge the curious interest Thomas sneaks in his direction before realising how evident the (admittedly misplaced) anxiety must be on his face. He taps a conclusive message before turning his phone off.

 

**sorry mum at work now love u . xx**

He does his absolute best to push the thought of Jay and Harry meeting far from his immediate headspace. It plays out far too well in his head, with landing jokes and a warm rapport, a scenario all too inviting to consider realistically. Instead, he examines Eleanor in her element, the epitome of safe aspirations in the way she dances on stupidly perfect arches. He can push for that.

He couldn’t push for Harry.

Each step is paired with the prettiest flow of her dance skirt, a cool translucent blue that may as well be a formal letter mocking whoever finalised the cast list. This is the right Ondine, beautiful and slender and so naturally feminine in a way Louis could never fabricate. And all danced in another role, one too human for what she really should be. So much better than him. So much more natural and poised, as if she’d been carved for it at birth. An Ondine in her prime, ripened after that teenage showcase he’d supported years ago, an Ondine far superior to his own.

When Eleanor’s finished he’s called back for his solo, and she is exactly what he emulates. It's ever more humiliating the more he thinks about it, taking tips from the rightful owner of the role for his own butchering of it. Shameful. He takes what he knows he needs and nothing more; the last thing he needs is anyone pointing out how much better she would be, how much better she is, but he wonders what it would be like to be in her skin, the right kind of perfect. The Ondine kind of effortless perfect. Maybe he pretends, and maybe it makes him feel worse.

It’s the last solo, the climax of the story, and each motion choreographed to speak of heartbreak seems to rip threads of his dignity away, this makeshift second-rate act no-one in their right mind would pay to see. What were they thinking? That he could pull this off?

If only he could. But it would take all manner of highway robbery to reach any kind of satisfactory performance, be it from Eleanor or really, anyone else. That said, he’s scoured tapes of Fonteyn’s rendition of this section meticulously, picking apart and digesting each beat, each breath, so although the stripped down piano backing track is the only sound keeping him in check he hears the surging rise and fall of a string section just as profoundly. Where the music should swell, so does the crafted expression that faults a lover’s betrayal, not a desperate cry of jealousy.

It seems he’s too weak to put that away.

  
He’s too occupied in his thoughts to recognise why everyone looks so devastated. His eyes fall on Eleanor, a muted search for validation, and reads her tears as a fury by one blatantly stolen from. He lowers his head, waiting to be dismissed.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T/W: disordered eating (for the whole of this story (obviously) but specifically this chapter)

After making up the lost studio time twofold, Louis is entirely prepared to admit that he’s overdone it today, now trying his best to limp down the station stairs with only the slightest hint of a grimace. The thick rush hour air is fleeting by the time the train comes, but there’s still a semblance of that relentlessly austere part of him that forbids him from taking a seat. He caves in on the brink of passing out.

The stairs out of the station are met with a rush of energy accumulated during his time sitting, but it’s not enough to carry him up to his apartment. It ends up taking him a good fifteen minutes to make it to the front door, throat shredded with shallow breaths, each joint threatening to give way as even the banisters don’t seem a convincing support system.

He can’t see which key he’s trying to jam in. The door opens regardless.

“Louis?”

Harry, painted in concern. He briefly wonders whether he’s permanently brow-furrowed, mouth careful or whether it is indeed a side effect of his new acquaintance with Louis. _Wait._

“You’re… My apartment?”  
“Yeah, you said it was okay to make dinner?”

Fuck right the way off did he say that. Except, he did, he must have, in his stupid rush out the door. He groans as if on the verge of sobbing, this being the dead last thing he needs to deal with alongside the physical strain he’s carrying. Harry’s picking up his bag before he even realises he’s dropped it.

“I’ll fill you in, just come in first. You look… tired.”  
Louis sinks into the sofa, honestly too battered to fight the situation he’s put himself in, “you can say like, ‘utter shite’, Harry, we’re… friends… now.”  
Harry winces at the sardonic tone in which he says it. Weren’t they supposed to talk about something? He senses the call for regret but also can’t handle micro-managing another second of his day, so Louis closes his eyes, opening them just as Harry touches his shoulder to suggest attention.

_Oh fuck no._

He doesn’t know the science behind the numbing of brain cells through exhaustion (or if that that’s even a thing) but it only now registers what’s happening. The comforting warmth of the apartment should have been a dead giveaway, usually bleakly chilly by the time he gets home but now a hearth, the kitchen lights on, hobs blazing probably for the first time since he’s moved in.  
“I hope you’ll like it…”  
Panic, as if he’s the one on fire. Harry switches one of them off, tipping something into something from a saucepan Louis doesn’t recognise.

The smell. How he dismissed it as a figment is beyond him now, when he’s being confronted with the inescapable aroma of what is no doubt a three course meal, layered, rich enough to choke and maim, which he kind of wishes it would. His stomach betrays him with a weak growl but it’s the nausea that overcomes him; whether psychological or physical, he’s pulled into a merciless fight or flight tug of war where he feels as if he’s literally about to be torn limb from limb.

“I didn’t really know where to start, there were no standout clues in your fridge… or anything at all, actually…”

He’s back underwater, treading sickly salt with ebbing words that suggest he should be having a conversation in time with their perpetual motion. He can’t keep up. Not when there’s _that_ in the room.

Meanwhile, Harry’s filling the plates like a death sentence. Louis only hears the tail-end of what must be a gentle prod for a response, the tone of Harry’s previously calm voice waning in the face of Louis’ unnerving silence. _Shit._

“--but maybe it’s a business thing, how do you think it’s going?”  
Dazed. “Sorry, what?” He tries to tear his attention from the counter, the plates, the pans and… did Harry buy a basil plant?!  
“How far do you want me to go back?”

He doesn’t sound particularly annoyed, more fond than anything. Patient. He might as well have just stabbed Louis at the dinner table, the way that makes his chest ache with guilt.

“Like, all of it. I’m sorry.”  
“No worries. If you’re as tired as you look I’m willing to reintroduce myself too…”  
Louis can’t help but smile at that. “Not that far back.”  
“That’s reassuring. You did seem oddly calm for having a potentially strange man in your home…”  
“Haz…”

He’s not sure why he says it, or equally, why he doesn’t take it back. It’s a softly teasing, reproachful tone, like they really are a thing and this is just a thing that he says now. Really it’s just a side effect of being this drained, the fond undertones a trick of the light, nothing more. Right?

Harry flushes nevertheless.

“I was talking about how much time and energy you devote to work. Especially relative to me…”  
“How do you mean?”  
“Well, ‘work’ for me constitutes of emailing Ben back and forth about thirteen versions of the same photo, then taking a call setting the dates for the first promo shoot. Which, side note, I hope you’re excited for…”  
“Oh shi-- well, fuck, I hope you’re good at photoshop then…”

He really doesn't get it, because he laughs like it's charming insecurity and not debilitating self-hatred, setting the table with a quirk of a smile and things all too-nice to say so earnestly.

“You don’t need it.”  
Louis scoffs, “Oh, piss off.”  
“I’m serious! They basically photoshop people to look like you,” he slots in an obvious up-down scan, “Except maybe… taller…”  
“Talle-- I’m 5'9, that's… above average, I’m sure.”  
“In your ballet shoes maybe. On your tippy toes.”  
“On pointe you mean. Unbelievable…”

The plates are in his peripheral vision. Then, one is placed right in front of him. He’s in a tunnel vision trance only briefly shifted by the dip of Harry’s dimple, more pronounced in the warm candlelight.

Louis doesn’t remember owning candles. Where did Harry get _candles_ from?

“Anyway, after that, I expressed my struggle with coming up with tonight's menu based on our limited friendship and the contents of your fridge - or lack thereof. I know you’re a busy man but a half a pint of expired milk and a really suspicious lime? What do you eat?!”  
“I eat… food…”  
It’s like he’s fucking fifteen again. Harry is unconvinced, but does little to question the foundation of what Louis’ just said.

“Ready meals are not food, but okay,”  
As if he’d willingly put that in his body...  
“I decided to go with a classic; chicken… stuffed with mozzarella… wrapped in parma ham… with a side of homemade mashed potatoes.”  
He names each step alongside an explanatory gesture, a perfectly timed show that ends with him sitting directly facing Louis, an expression that screams of accomplishment and isn't at all intended to feel challenging. It’s been far too long since Louis has had to do this.

“Nice.”

Playful banter has proved somewhat successful in the past, but Louis wonders how far he’ll have to go this time. He recalls Niall’s 21st, where he dared the boy to eat both massive party platters of nachos in under two minutes, causing him to spend the greater part of the night vomiting in Zayn’s bathroom, a smile leftover from having won the bet and the main instigator of accepting it in the first place, tequila. Liam was tending to his irritated then-boyfriend Zayn, leaving Louis to rub Niall’s back and absentmindedly chat about football. Niall was fed plain bread and everyone just kind of forgot. Dramatic distraction remained a fail-safe tool in Louis’ misleading act. Was it dishonest? Potentially dangerous for innocent bystanders?

Absolutely.

He takes his fork and knife, ignoring the jittery hand that seems to yearn for him to just do this normally. Just tonight. A moment of consideration does little to move him or his clear intention. The disappearing act pursues.

“So, you what, you cook professionally too?” An inoffensive tone, marking a rivet in the tracks of the conversation. Vague subject, clearly a passion, with the added benefit of being headed by Harry, who talks constantly on his own accord with little prodding. Louis begins to cut into the chicken.  
“No, no, I just… like it! Everyone loves to eat, so it’s an easy way to make friends… you offer someone nourishment and they’re more likely to warm up to you…”  
He genuinely chuckles at that, the thought of Harry being anything less than absolutely charming to everyone he meets utterly absurd.

“Like you need any help with that…”  
He smiles.  
“Certainly doesn’t hurt. My mum would always have us eat dinner together, it’s a nice bonding thing to do with people… you care about...”  
Louis quirks an eyebrow, “You care about me then?”  
“You know I do…” solemnly. Harry’s prone to that intense expression sometimes which, albeit perfectly distracting, puts him in control of the exchange. Louis steers back to the subject of eating, a brief subconscious reminder that dispels Harry’s previous challenging ‘what do you eat?’ and sets the groundwork that shows Louis as not being completely out of his element right now. An illusion of casual comfort, he waves a loaded fork to punctuate his words.

“Was always too busy for that. Too many kids in the house to gather to eat all at the same time, at the same table. Right mess, would’ve been. Which reminds me,” another natural switch of subject, “Heard you had a chat with my mum…”  
Harry’s startled from his relaxed position, fork in hand almost gone flying.  
“Right, sorry! I picked up the phone by accident”  
Banter. “How do you pick up a phone by accident…”  
“Second nature! I was in the zone I forgot that’s not what you do when you’re in someone else’s house.”

Louis smirks. A designated moment of silence masked as a moment to think while he picks apart the rest of his plate, a heaped mess off centre. The rush of an expertly controlled con might be foolishly mistaken for lightheadedness, but he can’t help but relish in the fun of this kind of act, one he seldom has the time or need for, living alone with a unique schedule. And Harry is just the right amount of predictable for him to tread cautiously, but for it not to feel like a minefield. He takes a sip of water.

“She sounded lovely though. Your mum? Asked who I was so I said a friend and then she told me to let you know to call her ASAP.”  
“Yeah, she let me know. She thought you were a boyfriend.”  
“About that…”

He’s always been a little too expressive when it came to emotional bouts or sudden thoughts, and while it helped in ballet it was no help when pulling sensitive ploys where it’s easy to get cocky, so as soon as the balance of power over the conversation shifts, his face is the first to show it. Thankfully, Harry finds it amusing.

“Don’t worry, it’s not about what you said when you were leaving....”  
_What?_ “What?”  
“...I’ve said ‘I love you’ more to Laura from tech support than to my own father…”  
Unfamiliarity is a crisis. He offers a joke to steer away from the fact that he has no clue what Harry’s on about.  
“Is that… more indicative of your relationship with your father or your fondness for Laura?”  
“Mistakes! Don’t worry. I wanted to talk… more about last night.”

_Jesus..._

“Maybe you should call Laura…”  
“Lou…”

The gentle way in which he says it, so similar to the way he said Haz just a while ago, and the implication of that reciprocality make him physically cringe. It does signal an acceptable moment to set down his fork though.

“I get that… this isn’t your normal kind of ‘thing’... Not to say that you do other things just, that’s just the impression I got from what you said…”  
_Fucking hell…_ “Do we really need to…”  
“Please. Just. I really, really like you, Lou.”  
“You mentioned.”  
“I’d really love… if you agree, of course, to do this properly.”  
“Boyfriends, you mean.”  
“Yes.”

A lifetime of observing appropriate human behaviour and interactions scream for him to fix this. His face shouldn’t be so hard and cold, his body language rejecting. And he can tell it’s bad, because Harry’s tentative expression is faltering by the second. A breath of silence too long, he starts to pick at his own plate, and Louis’ gaze drops to find it almost finished, a self-contained illustration of why this would be the worst idea.

“Well I’m no tech support…”

“Lou---”  
“I… I like you too, okay?”  
_What are you doing?_  
Harry’s face rolls back to the right amount of hopeful, the correct interaction they should be having. Louis wants to shrink from the choking discomfort; he wasn’t planning on this brand of honesty right now but he can’t seem to stop a part of himself talking, a spontaneous density separation between two conflicted approaches, the one to maneuver through things like this and the one too frustratingly fragile to be of any use, somehow brave enough to be coaxed out from under the suppression of the former by a soft gaze and dream-like proposition. ‘Dense’ is right...

“And this is like, such, teenage bullshit--”  
“It’s not bullshit…”  
“--but I don’t know how to do things like this, it’s like it’s beyond me--”  
“Lou, breathe…”  
“--because every time I’ve tried something I never do anything right and it all falls apart before I can register what’s even happening---”  
“Louis…”  
“--and it’s just safer to do the bare minimum and not get attached but I have and I don’t know what to do anymore because I can’t make sense of it or even keep up with it always in the background alongside work and Ondine and--”  
“ _Breathe_.”

There’s a pause as he catches his breath, raw, where it should be okay to snatch back the control, backpedal so fast into another, safer territory, but it wouldn’t pass without inspection and questions far too close to home… and Louis hates outright lying.

He must’ve missed the bit where Harry leaves his seat, a hand placed in what’s meant to be a reassuring manner on his back as he crouches to a seated eye-level, speaking in such a measured, calming tone that it’s almost chilling.

“Look if you’re not… We don’t have to make anything--”  
“But I want to!”, he’s going to have to come back to that particular mistake, “It’s just… I don’t know stuff like this, I don’t know the… the… protocol or--”  
“Protocol,” Harry chuckles, “what are you talking about?”  
“That! I don’t know that there’s no protocol.”  
He softens his tone again, so it doesn’t sound mocking.  
“We can do things our own way, okay? No like… official criteria to follow…”  
Louis can’t help but scoff at the attempted lightheartedness, “You know what I meant.”  
Harry’s quick to raise his hands in apology.

“Okay. My bad. But remember that I know you don’t have time and you’re busy a lot, yeah? We’ve been working around that already and we still can; you have a really hard job and honestly I don’t know how you’re keeping up with that alone, especially now that you’re lead and the fame’s going to make you crazy high maintenance…”  
“Yeah, right...” Louis snorts.  
“I’m willing to do that. And if you need time to adjust to things or to take it slow or space, if you need space, you just need to ask.”

A consideration. Louis plants a chaste kiss on Harry’s forehead despite everything in his head cursing the direction he has allowed this to take. Another witness. Another risk to account for.

It makes Harry grin though, and that’s a sliver of ‘enough’ to simmer down all fear and doubt until he returns to his seat to finish and clear up his plate. Then it’s evermore clear what a foolish endeavour this has the potential to be, each glance between them a synopsis of how hard and fast Louis is falling, falling, a luxury he can’t afford.

Dessert follows suit, and the wine is the first and only thing they both consume.  
  


Louis volunteers to wash up.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "the structure will help kick my arse into gear"  
> spoiler alert the structure did not help kick my arse into gear yikes.  
> life happens and this was difficult to write while life was Happening so you’re getting this embarrassingly late! I have to say though, this work has frequently been saved by people’s comments encouraging me to continue so I thank everyone who has commented and stuck with my unreliable ass for so long; I only feel bad I can’t update this as regularly as I’d like to.
> 
> If you by some chance do want the next chapter and I’m taking four months to open another word document to start writing it (which believe me I’d rather avoid but as we have seen before, it happens far too often for me), do feel free to yell at me to get my act together.
> 
> xx


	20. Chapter 20

Harry finally dozes off about seven minutes into the third act, his previously steadfast determination to watch the full run of tapes detailing Margot Fonteyn’s performance as Ondine having dwindled with each perfectly executed arabesque. It wouldn’t be a problem if the score wasn’t regularly punctuated with a low and rumbling snore, Louis being perfectly happy to complete this activity by himself - and, from experience, with fewer complaints as he rewound small sections of sequences multiple times - much as he’d be happy if this wasn’t the fourth night in a row that Harry’s stayed over.

It’s not like he’s regretting his decision, albeit a dramatically uncharacteristic one for him, but he is desperately longing for his own space back. He’s not eaten in the past three days because Harry’s interrupted his schedule so much, getting to a point where he can’t have the few carefully planned out portions he lives on, nor can he take advantage of Harry’s tendencies to cook lavishly because he’s always in the house and Louis doesn’t trust the sound-proofing of his walls for shit. He never lets himself get this reckless, having learned rather painfully that minimal upkeep is vital in nursing this kind of affliction. This absolutist extreme feels childish and emotional, a pattern he hasn’t indulged in since going professional for the sake of pragmatic need over disordered desire and physical craving equally.

He’s slipped up though, the work at rehearsals and the stress of having a perpetual witness again a cumulative force in driving him to abandon, and after cracking at dinner he doesn’t have a choice.

If he is not clear-headed he’s at least methodical, rewinding the film back to ensure an insulating layer of dramatic orchestra so that Harry remains blissfully unconscious as he pads quietly to the bathroom and locks the door. Though the measurement of ‘binge’ has changed drastically over the years the connotations are the same; clammy, sluggish guilt, with such a quickly dissipating suggestion of relief that you’d miss it over a blink. It could be worse. It could be much, much better.   
  
There’s no consideration anymore, just sticking fingers down his throat until he tastes vomit coming out of his nose. It doesn’t matter what he had, just the very fact that he had it, unregulated, unprepared, giving in like his knees do. He stops when he starts dry heaving. Has some water. Goes again. Much like any process, there’s an element of expertise to it, the balance between practicality and swaying, guilty disgust, the fine line between going too far and not far enough. Far gone when he hears the piece that plays alongside the credits, damp forehead against the rim of the bowl, no longer porcelain cold.   
  
He picks himself up, boils a mug of mint tea, and rewinds most of what he’d missed. When Harry starts to mindlessly chat in his sleep, as Louis’ only recently found out is custom, he smiles at the half-conscious assurance that Harry hasn’t missed a thing and he is, in fact, paying  _ very  _ close attention to Margot ‘Fountain’, who is ‘pretty in her own way, like every person is’, a statement followed by a muffled speech that pretty soon dissolves into light snores again. Even, measured, calming in a way that promises to soothe if you let it, so Louis tucks himself in the too-small space between Harry and the back of the sofa, just so confined that he might stop shaking before he needs to wake up again.   
  
  
He’d found out a lot of things about Harry over the past couple of days, both tidbits that have creeped up on him sans warning as much as the facts he actually asks for. Harry’s tendency to roam all non-professional spaces in various states of undress, for example, was the first to identify itself, though he did apologise profusely for the lack of warning and failing to ask permission to do so first (which Louis did grant afterwards, for scientific research). The fact that he had made himself at home almost immediately became apparent in a number of other ways too, from his complete takeover of the kitchen to the previously encountered habit of blindly answering phone calls, leaving him to plenty of friendly chats with telemarketers trying to sell dodgy car insurance, only partly in response to Louis’ blunt stance on the matter (“I’m not the one who’s had an accident in the past year if these wankers think I can afford to drive a car in central London”) where Harry would counter that ‘everyone’s got to make money somehow!’.

Similarly he’d come across uncomfortable truths concerning himself too, including but not limited to; defending Harry’s “I don’t get the  _ Pointe _ ” pun when met with (justifiable) condemnation from Niall, who had popped in to use the loo on his way home; almost willingly engaging in a High School Musical sing-along when Harry insisted the soundtrack was an integral part of the cooking process; and severely underdressing on his latest venture out to rehearsals, somehow already accustomed to relying on the disturbing amount of body heat Harry seemed to produce, probably stretching across a five mile radius.

Just as he had never considered the possibility he’d bring himself to do something like this, the mere thought that others could read it on his face like that ‘pregnancy glow’ shite Niall always teased Liam about having whenever he entered a new relationship was profoundly disturbing. And yet, somehow, Eleanor must have hacked into his brain, because not even ten minutes into warm-up she kicked him until he admitted to the greatest cosmic joke yet (it may have just been a nudge).   
  
“Bachelor Tommo no more...” she stated later, more satiated with an official confirmation rather than genuinely surprised. Louis couldn’t help but seethe.   
“How the fuck did you know anyway?”   
“You look more relaxed than I’ve ever seen you, and I met you when you were pumped full of teen-grade Val. But don’t worry, I won’t pass this on down the company grapevine, though you might want to ask loverboy to stop looking at you like you hung the moon when he comes to watch your solos...”   
He refrained from politely informing her that this was bullshit. If it weren’t for a quick reaffirming trip to the stalls as he came in to work he’d be fucked over with the residual stress of dinner the night before. The very concept of _ that _ having any room in his one solace, the apartment, was positively repulsive. On second thought he could never stand to keep his mouth shut...   
  
“You’re full of shit, El.”   
“You can be pissy that everyone and their mother knew what was happening before you caught on, just do it with your back arched.”    
Not an obscene remark, though the potential is irking. Worse still, he shouldn’t be collecting these basic corrections this close to show date.   
“Anymore advice?”   
“You know where I stand,” she raised her leg, which, given the context, would have definitely gained her a hearty Harry chuckle, “don’t fuck him up because you’re a pussy.”   
“Try my best.”    
He’d bet money she glared at that, though he didn’t glance back to check. Her tone remained the same measure as she continued, “And chill out. There’s worse things to be than well-fucked by your gorgeous, doting boyfriend…”   
  
A brief pause as they both bent at the back, though only one set of joints cracked on the return. Louis would also bet money she eyed him up again then, for an entirely different reason. She didn’t speak, but it wasn’t a safe silence. A well oiled excuse should have smoothed the detail over with a smile.   
  
“Maybe you’re right. Getting old, should settle down…”   
Eleanor sighed, though a shuffle of that day’s fashionable dancewear signified she had returned to the barre.    
“Not to be a bitch, Lou, but if you’re messed up you have to tell someone,” a thoughtful pause, “Just like, you know, not me.”   
“I’m good.”   
  
  


He’s not good.   
  
The other thing about Harry is that he  _ is _ good. Good in all the ways there are, good where Louis is certainly not and then some. Harry is handsome and nice and everyone warms up to him within minutes of meeting him, drawn like moths to this powerhouse of a flame that never burns, just lights up the room with something so very opposite of the manufactured shit you would think of if someone told you ‘you should meet Harry, he’s a great guy, but you might like him a little too much than you should because you’ll never deserve someone that good, that authentically good, and that very knowledge will stop you ever fully letting him do you any good while he still thinks you’re good enough to be good to, because admitting you want him around will only show him how much better he can do’.

  
He baits the thought that Harry is all the good things he used to be, with all the bad bits cut out, never brash or annoying or loud like a half hour in a bar can get him, never mean or spiteful or insecure like he is now. He ponders how stupid it was that they met, how worst met best and how that kind of polarity cloaked in mild alcoholism can fool a good man long enough to now, how stupid it is that now he can run his fingers through that stupid long hair and Harry doesn’t pull away, just leans back into him.  
  
  
And then, he doesn’t think anything at all, lulled to sleep with the gentle pain in his legs and the steady breaths of the best man he knows, who for all the good that he is must be ten times as stupid to dream that Louis will do anything but rob him blind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not been seven months !! amazing
> 
> Little filler chapter because I needed to set up some basics before the original chapter 22 (now 23), which incidentally means that ch23 is actually half written already ((don't get your hopes up this is usually the case ch21 was essentially done when i disappeared for literal months after saying to several people i would write more during the summer tl;dr i continue to be a disaster))
> 
> In other news, I only listened to Harry’s album yesterday bc i’m trash and Meet Me in the Hallway is such a quintessentially Corps song that ??? I’m baffed ???? literally if this shitshow of a fic was a movie and I asked Harry to write a song for the credits……… couldnt be more seamless. 
> 
> as always thank you for reading and commenting i'm very excited and i hope you dont feel like you read this chapter already promise things will actually happen next time !!
> 
> xx


	21. Chapter 21

“Shut the  _ FUCK  _ up oh my  _ GOD!  _ ”

The woman beside him turns around positively aghast, as if policing that Louis is indeed frantically lowering his call volume. Niall continues to screech on the other side though, only momentarily deterred when Louis draws them back to the topic at hand once the other passengers in the carriage, and probably the next carriage over, return to bleakly staring at their own screens.

“I’m in public, can you not?”

“Ooooooooh you sneaky sneaky bastard!”

The distant clanging of a dropped saucepan. Niall screams through the pain, returning with the same volume and fervency when questioned.

“Excuse me?”

“I TOLD you, I  _ TOLD  _ you Harry’s a goner for you! And guess what, he  _ is! Druuuuunk in looove  _ … can’t see the warning signs… Ohhhhmyyygod…”

“Thanks man, you really make me feel worthy of… this.”

What even is ‘ _ this’  _ ? They tried to keep it on the downlow per Louis’ request, restricted to the flat, but it felt so superficial and obviously concealed, as if he was acting straight again. Harry’s insistence on sitting in on most - if not all - of the rehearsals was increasingly more obvious beyond just Eleanor’s keen eye, so much so that Louis had to ask him to stop coming, which in turn meant they didn’t see much of each other at all what with Louis always at work and Harry always at Louis’ apartment. They sunk into a molded routine whereby Harry would cook and clean and tell Louis all the things he didn’t ask and go to bed early because he was tired after waiting for most of the day and Louis would drink and wash up so as to not think about killing himself. In the grand effort to relax Louis after the worst of class and practice Harry only made him more exhausted and, though it was awkward to admit, the days Harry had to stay at his own place were the most peaceful of all.

 

Louis really liked Harry in theory. He didn’t like the food he left in his fridge or the invasion of space and he hated feeling watched, as if he had to look over his shoulder every time. But all that was too shitty to think, much less say or share.

“Oh fuck man, you know you’re not, right? At least like, the love-y bits that Harry’s like. Wouldn’t be a friend if I didn’t tell you...”

“Of course I know, Niall, you prick.”

The father behind him huffs, no doubt covering his precious child’s ears, as Niall draws out a low noise, audibly relishing in the drama of the situation.

“Fuck you’re gonna ruin him. It’s gonna be  _ beautiful _ .”

“You’re… really not making me feel better about this…”

 

The ‘now approaching’ announcement plays a minute too late. If only he could’ve had this conversation beyond the judgement of half of London.

 

“I’m just kidding mate, no worries! Just mean like, he seems really ‘soulmates’ and, well, you know what you’re like, but no reason it can’t be a thing if you want it to be! Nah man, well happy for you both. Enjoy it, you deserve some cute shit in your life.”

 

_ Right. _

 

“Cheers. Talk to you later.”

“Hold on, so you lot were fucking already that day I came over? I  _ knew _ you’d never defend a pun without being seriously incapacitated! Like brain damage but not… dick damage.” he drops the accusatory tone to chortle at his own joke.

Louis puts his hand over his phone in an effort to further minimise the sound before muttering under his breath, “You didn’t come over, you pissed in my house...”

Niall scoffs, apparently offended.

“I was a _ guest _ , you couldn’t tell me you just finished playing ‘hide the salami’? I would’ve left you to it! Or watched, point is, _ RUDE! _ ”

 

While Niall’s frankly impressive volume range is useful when trying to locate him in public, it does prove embarrassing when even the lowest call setting can’t quite muffle his shrill accusations, confirmed by the relative quiet of the passengers surrounding Louis in a collective eavesdrop.

 

“We didn’t. Also, I hate you.”

“So you’ll tell me when it’s time?”

“First of all, no. Second of all, it’s not gonna happen.”

He stops to tut, all mother hen, before returning to the receiver in a patronising tone.

“Babes, it’s okay, just look up ‘douching’ on wikihow and it’s all going to be fine. Don’t just google it without the wikihow though that might take you down a whole other canal…”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Niall…”

“Not judging, just trying to share resources!”

 

The train station sign starts to come into view.

“Great, talk to you later, I’m getting off.”

“You will be! He’s gonna look  _ banging  _ on your opening night! Oh my  _ god _ do you get it?  _ Opening night… _ ”

He smashes the ‘open door’ button, “Bye Niall.”

“How long d’you give him before he starts to question whether you’re right for each other when it’s actually the fact that you as people want and have always wanted fundamentally different things and that he probably should be with someone who echoes his lovey-dovey view of life than with a workaholic whose longest relationship was with a borderline abusive ballet instructor 10 years older than him with an obnoxious accent and ugly feet?”

Down the platform, “Right after this photoshoot. Fuck off Niall.”

“You can’t tell me to fuck off after waiting  _ this long  _ to tell me lifetime bachelor Louis William  _ Fucking _ Tomlinson...”

Tapping out, “...don’t have to say my full name every time...”

“...is  _ settling down _ with a pretty boy he somehow put under a spell in mere months!”

“I’m not-- You say a word of this to Jay…”

 

The thought of Harry answering another unsuspecting phone call is sufficiently threatening. The possibility of another confused text this time spelling “Fiancee??” is enough to maim.

 

Back on the phone, Niall sounds affronted.

 

“Do I  _ have _ a choice? I’m her delegate journalist recording her stupid son’s trips to the laundromat because he’s too busy to give her a ring every couple days… You’re the worst and you’re not even  _ my _ son.”

Carelessly harmless insults aside, he really should give her a call.

“It’s not worth it. I told you, he’s going to dump me within the week.”

“It’s  _ been _ weeks, dumbass,” Niall stops to grumble, “can’t believe that’s how long you waited to tell your _ ‘best friend’ _ but okay…

 

Now with the wide open space of the train station, though cluttered with rushing businessmen and tourists, Louis feels anonymous enough to profess an unfortunate truth.

“I don’t see him enough for him to know that he should dump me.”

Niall comes back unsettled, a mix of nervous laughs and legitimate concern.

“Ha, nah mate, you know that’s all jokes yeah?”

_ Is it? _

“Yes Niall I understand humour can you fuck off now?”

Satisfactory.

“If he’s hung you have to tell me everyth--”

He hangs up the phone just in time to personally inconvenience a raging bull of a businessman, the avoidance of whom naturally places him face to face with none other than Thomas, sunglasses, parka and all.

 

“Oh.” he shifts his weight from foot to foot, clearly irritated, “It’s you.”

Louis rolls his eyes, already walking off in front of him.

“As thrilled as you are.”

 

For some reason Thomas isn’t too committed to vilifying Louis this time and Louis continues to feel the barest of indifference when it comes to being around Thomas so, in an unprecedented event, the pair manage to travel to Harry’s studio together without biting each other’s heads off (though the uneasy awareness of how alien this is remains a twitching backdrop to every shared step). Arriving at the terribly modern cube building they widen the distance between them a little, equally refusing to acknowledge their ground-breaking moment of coexistence.

It doesn't last long.

Precisely, another 5 minutes, just enough for a twitchy intern to take them up to where Harry’s set up a pool of water balanced on four tall blocks, surrounded by a ridiculous number of lights. He glances up and immediately lights up himself, an unabashed grin with all focus on Louis. Thomas clears his throat obtusely, a beckon for attention.

“We shooting with El or?”

Harry’s smile transforms into a curt one almost instantly. Professional, one would like to think, if it weren’t for the fact that Harry so obviously has never even considered the social practice of even imitating professional behaviour. The full visibility of his nipples despite his shirt (with fully functioning buttons, mind) verify this judgement. Profoundly.

“Not much, no. This one’s for an article on the gender swap. She'll come around later for a couple of shots.”

 

Just the three of them then… Great.

Thomas purses his lips together suggesting a similar train of thought, then shakes his head all the way to the side of the room, where a friendly woman with bleached hair begins to assist him. With little else to do save for blankly staring at the bizarrely minimalistic interior, bizarre only in conjunction with Harry’s eccentricity and gaude, Louis gambles a step towards a crouching Harry busily fiddling with his set-up.

 

“Is there another artist or... do I just wait?”

“Neither. Don’t need makeup when you look like Louis Tomlinson...”

He can detect the cue to smirk back, maybe playfully nudge, lecture the other man into subtlety, but he can only frown. Harry sombres up, though mildly disappointed.

“Thomas shouldn’t take long. You have a whole water nymph fantasy to look forward to.”

The peak of his career. “Can’t wait.”

He steals a peek at the other people in the room to ensure they’re still fully occupied before taking another step into Harry’s domain. He looks up at him questioningly.

 

“Sorry ‘bout being a prick recently.” Louis mutters, much defiant to all but one part of him in choosing this kind of willing display of vulnerability, “Don’t want you to think I’m like, not, into this anymore…”

Harry is quick to drop what he’s doing, taking Louis’ hands into his own.

“No no no, little bird! I told you, your own pace. I’m sorry if I’ve been too much.”

“Mmm.”

 

The halfhearted hum proves affirming enough, Harry letting Louis’ hands fall limply back in place to reach for an elegant looking garment bag which he models as gracefully as he can muster with one hand.

“The finest charmeuse for the prettiest Ondine.”

Louis snorts. “Hardly. Where can I go change?”

He chooses not to question whatever word Harry just sneezed at him, still relishing in Harry’s continuous bewilderment when he casually throws ballet terms around and committed to preserve the power balance in that particular matter.

He looks like he might say ‘Wherever you like’ or something similarly suggestive, every trickle of thought in spotlight beams on his face. Louis isn’t sure whether he’s aware of this major fault of his - likely his one and only, the bastard - but it may prove useful yet.

Harry finally points down a corridor.

“Second left. The lock’s a little funny.” he holds his gaze a little too long, “if you need any help give us a shout...”

“Think I’ll manage it fine.”

He walks out with some semblance of confidence, cool poise, the facade disintegrating as soon as he passes the threshold.

 

First of all, the lock is not ‘a little funny’, the lock is utter shite. He could probably secure it more firmly if he put blu-tack between the door and the frame. The room itself is fine, albeit compact, with a massive window Louis immediately props open as wide as the safety guard will allow. Chills. He still feels like he’s overheating. 

He sits down in the chair turned away from the vanity mirror, and tries to steady his breathing to some basic degree of stable. At least that. The heartbeat can stutter all it likes, as long as it doesn’t show in photos.

It’s mostly unsuccessful. He eyes the garment bag with genuine fear, stifled only by a firm conviction that he has no choice but to do this. He opens it carefully, an apprehensive glance at the contents as if it may come alive to bite at any moment. Blue. Breathe. Whatever ‘charmeuse’ is it’s the lightest blue and feels like silk or satin as he runs his fingers over, entranced by the placebo calm it seems to coax out; smooth and luxurious like you’d want water to look like, he assumes, seamless and flowing even where the fabric itself doesn’t flow.

A little too seamless, Louis realises, coming to the other side of the piece to find it not sewn into any kind of form, a single sheet in his already trembling hands. Already. Pause.

 

This must be a joke.

 

His heart's too far up his throat, head filling with the tremors of rushing blood, a well known panic taking root so that he stands quite still despite shaking on the inside. Frozen, an involuntary noise squeaks out, and Louis prays that no one but him could hear that sliver of weakness.  No use panicking, so so stupid.

He drags his feet back down the corridor, the fabric draped over his arm, forcing his best to suppress the irrational anxiety so that he appears somewhat normal when faced with...

“Harry--”

… who is still on his knees, tangled in wires, yet now gazing up, nodding, a slick man standing over him with arms folded, talking in a way that would remain exactly the same even if he didn’t have an audience.

Louis feels his jaw clench. The panic is still running savage in his system but it seems to have stopped attacking it, turning instead to the scene before him as if it had always been on Louis’ side. He must clear his throat too, or make his presence known somehow, because the man looks up at him and grins a grin that doesn't reach his eyes.

“This must be our prima ballerina! Ben Winston, a pleasure.”

An outstretched hand. Louis notes the order of cue as Harry follows Ben’s eyes before looking to Louis too, and he gazes the same way. Sick. He shakes Ben’s hand, because that’s what you do.

“All mine.”

 

Ben is polished in all manners of presentation, from his combed back hair down to his italian leather shoes with even the seemingly nonchalant unbuttoned collar exposing a calculated choice, a wink to convince he too is down to earth. Tight handshake, formal. Louis’ hands don’t shake anymore, but only now does he feel how cold they are. Ben takes his hand back, looping the thumb in his belt hoop, an upward nod as he proceeds to take over the situation.

 

“You had an issue?”

For  _ Harry  _ … Clearly this is not the way it’s going to go.

“The costume… or fabric...”

This is all the prompt Ben seems to need, launched into explaining as eloquently as he had been to Harry a second before with little care for whether Louis is actually listening or cares even remotely about the topics he’s selected.

“Yes, I had some input from a colleague of mine, she suggested deconstructing the images Harry here put together to keep the public in the dark about the plans for the official costume design, but simultaneously get them invested in this little spin so they start talking about the show, keeping track of future interviews and trailers… Keep them guessing!”

An answer to a question he didn’t ask. Louis still trembles, but it's far hotter, irritated.

“So…”

“The first suggestion was to go nude, but there was the issue of outreach. Couldn’t publish an article to as wide an audience however tasteful the shots were, so we’ve gone with fabric. Cover the important bits and we’ll be artsy and suitable for mass media.”

He smiles as if to signal a round of praise from Louis, who only looks on evermore baffled as to how a man of average flexibility can reach his head so far up his own arse. The implication doesn’t quite register until a beat later, at which point Harry’s already unwinding himself from lightbox cables to offer assistance. The panic makes a grand return with a crack and a shudder to his voice.

“Sorry, so I’ve just got the…”

“Second one a prude! Your friend wasn't keen either, but you’d think those tights they make you wear show much more, and with a full house… Wouldn’t want my family to sit front row, I’ll tell you that!”

It’s meant to be a joke, Louis knows, but he’s hardly enough air in his lungs to breathe let alone give away for the sake of politeness. Harry must say something then, though whatever it is doesn’t quite resonate beside the fact that Louis nods blindly, still watching Ben’s haughty eyes as his own try to refocus until they can’t because he’s being led back to the dressing room with the shitty lock.

Harry shuts the door and it reverberates like some made-up sound played underwater. He speaks and it’s like Louis’ just resurfaced from six feet down.

“You okay?”

“Sorry. Fine,” the small truth system, “Just nerves.”

Harry frowns, “You look pale. Did you have lunch?”

Flooring chills clashed with an equal measure of hot nausea, cloudy and disorientating. Louis feels like he might pass out.

The pit of his stomach crawls at how meek he sounds,“Sorry?”“If you feel overwhelmed we can take a break, I can make you some tea? Might have something in the other office, pop down, won’t even know I’m gone…”

Measure. Breathe. All advice that could benefit Harry right now, and Louis wonders whether Harry’s tendency to stress over him helps to level his own anxiety or simply ring alarm bells that someone’s catching on to his game. In any case, he plays the professional card.

“They’re your photos, right?” weak chuckle, “Can’t steal the photographer away…”

“Ben’s kind of calling the shots…” he chuckles to himself, “Shots on the shoot. Haha… I’m basically just taking the pictures. And, um, helping you out with this.”

Louis eyes him with guarded suspicion, too shaken to try to disguise this particular distrust. Somehow though it’s not at all treated as a joke as Harry raises his palms up immediately, spinning around so that his back faces Louis and, unintentionally, he loses his footing a little and wobbles on one heeled boot. Regaining some balance, he pronounces focused, impartial instructions towards the door.

“If you get down to your bottom half I’ll tie up the top. Then you can just take the rest off no problem.”

_ None at all. _

He doesn’t particularly have a choice, but he stands still and blank as if there’s some room for personal consideration. Harry clears his throat a little though it comes out strained, as if he meant it to be gentle and when it came out too gruff he feared it would offend. He corrects himself.

“Is that okay?”

Louis stares, speechless. He starts to nod slowly before realising Harry can’t see him and, now glad he hadn’t witnessed that mistake, makes an affirming noise before laying the fabric down on the table.

Hawkeyes boring into the back of Harry’s head, Louis slips his coat off like a test, as silent as possible, observing any hint of movement or its consideration carefully, as if blinking would reveal Harry spun around with pointed fingers, taking photos then and there. Nothing. Tentatively, he reaches fingers under the edge of his jumper, separating it from the shirt underneath. Just as he’s almost starting to relax he detects motion and rushes arms to cover himself back up before it’s clear that Harry had just started to rock back on his heels.

It’s embarrassing. The very fact he feels the need for such vigilance is embarrassing.

Humiliated with no witness but himself, he takes off the jumper and the shirt faster than he’s comfortable to with eyes downcast, a sense of punishing abandon replacing the aching, prickly anxiety. Stupid. What a stupid way of reacting. Shouldn’t even be indulged with this accommodating special treatment. Don’t deserve to check and check and check like that. Harry  _ should  _ turn around,  _ owes you nothing. Don’t deserve to set all the grounds and boundaries and he’s going to leave you as soon as he realises this is just the way you are and the way you’re always going to be... _

A gust of wind centres him with a striking bitter cold so severe it might have knocked him into the other room. It’s biting before it is numb, and wrong, and Louis fights to keep his teeth from chattering as he tries to close the window one-handed.

Barely gets halfway.

“Sorry, Haz, window…”

He must know, because he’s across the room in a stride, leaving Louis in the corner, curling into himself as Harry fiddles with the multiple locks, securing this one window more firmly than perhaps any other opening in the entire building. Once there’s literally no chance of any elemental interaction he turns slowly, eyes raised up to the ceiling so that in meaning to face Louis he’s actually a little off.

“Ready?”

It should be comical, this tender interaction with an empty space, but Louis just feels worse for making him have to do all this extra shit, like he’s forced to facilitate a spoiled child. The thought grinds grime down his throat.

 

Some part of him manages to reach out with this thought too, against all joints fighting to reign his hand back in. Instead Louis tugs Harry’s chin down so that their eyes meet, though his other arm stays ironclad against his chest and stomach. Harry smiles, green to blue, and looks no further.

 


	22. Chapter 22

He’s true to the unspoken agreement to keep eyes firmly averted with the exception of tying the fabric at the shoulder, leaving it to flow down the front and back with peeking sides, coming to a gentle halt just below the ankle. The natural dissipation of anxiety reveals just how much of a needless fuss Louis’ had been making, more covered up now than he’d probably ever been on stage.    
  
When Harry excuses himself so he can continue to set up things for the shoot and actually return to his job (after several confirmations that Louis was indeed feeling better now, mind), he can’t help but think of the excuses Harry has to make for him, how much easier it would be for everyone if they had just cast someone else, someone who doesn’t need assistance in tying sodding fabric around themselves. That, and the image of Harry having to grovel for his sake to King Prick Ben, no less, is enough to make him cut off circulation to his feet by how tight he winds the ribbons of his pointe shoes. He warms up his feet again begrudgingly, recalling one of his school friend’s torn ligaments as if it were a favourite fable and not an unfortunate incident. The routine of it all almost calms him down.   
  
Almost.   
  
Harry checks on him again when the make-up artist is half-way through the promised transformation and barely even a quarter-way through enthusing about her young daughter, each silly anecdote stacking up an impressive height that Louis might be ready to jump from if he ever has to leave this room. Even that thought is placated with accompanying photos of the girl, for which Harry stays to coo and grin with full dimple activated, a spectacle in itself.    
  
When his skin is £30 less drab and he’s painted with all the shades of shimmery blue ever manufactured he can hear much better, the simultaneous distractions and concentration from the make-up artist an oddly soothing process to observe. He forgets she’s touching him at all, still a little distant from his physical form, and feels her curl his hair as if he were just watching her do it to someone else. Really, the stress only comes ebbing back when he hears - what must be Ben’s - booming shout, no doubt hurrying everyone along. Harry returns once more.   
  
“All ready?”

He doesn’t particularly have a choice, not with the thought of Ben reprimanding Harry for his own faults. In a blurry rush everything’s all set up, with a smirking Thomas giving him an up and down once-over. He’s dressed in the same sort of draping material but in white, just slightly covering his shoulders and chest, with basic brown ballet tights which he must have brought himself, or the ‘deconstructing’ bollocks only applied to Ondine herself...

They’re told to stand back to back when Thomas decides to resume his traditional barrage of insults with head tilted back towards Louis, a doting gesture as far as the camera is concerned.

Whispered taunt, “Y’alright? Fairy...”

“Water-nymph, actually.”

“Thomas, face forward.” Harry orders, supreme politeness and nonchalance, though Louis ventures to guess it isn’t just about the photos judging by the quick way he says it. Thomas does as he’s told, naturally, but clearly irritated in a way that luckily translates as more ‘moody’ and ‘stoic’, earning him booming praise from Ben, who spends the whole shoot sporadically leaving and returning to the set in time with obnoxiously loud phone calls.

The feeling of approval is certainly not returned though, as when Ben _ is _ in the room he continuously insists on ‘the prince’ wrapping his arms around ‘the girl’ in all sorts of loving embraces, all of which Thomas recoils from instantly after they’re done. Despite this obvious and arguably childish display of a prevailing lack of trust, Ben walks back in with the bright idea of a Dirty Dancing style lift, which garners much excitement from the other staff (the makeup artist basically squeals), but a collective feeling of dread for both dancers. Louis turns to Harry.   
  
Weakly, “could give it a go?”

Caving. Louis recognises some naive ebb and flow of disappointment but switches it back to procedural practicality, internally debating whether he can do this jump and whether Thomas will even be bothered to catch him. The makeshift dress is too long, heavy and opaque all at once for that kind of horizontal lift, though it’s hardly something Ben would consider for his spontaneous whim, not when there’s an opportunity for a recognisable reference. Maybe he has at least read the Wikipedia entry for Ondine, because he’s managed to make the link between the two as both containing dancing and water to some degree…

In any case, Harry remains silent, fiddling with camera settings as one scrolls through old texts to appear busy, Ben yapping on about  the ‘vision’ he has for this lift to Thomas, who’s clearly the only one in the room other than Ben himself that’s worth talking to. Thankfully, Thomas has some semblance of reality.    
  
“Fabric’s too long.” Thomas interjects, matter-of-factly, though probably grateful for the excuse. It doesn’t go down well with Ben, who just chuckles flippantly at the suggestion.   
“I’m sure you’ll manage…”   
“Sorry, you’re the authority on that?”   
Ben is taken aback. Much like Louis, who Thomas is making steady strides in front of as if gathering for a better look of Ben. Not that Thomas is particularly  _ unlike  _ snapping, but the speed at which he turns aggressive in this case is a little disorientating.    
“You got good lawyers? Because if I’m lifting an odd 150lbs I need to be able to see.”   
  
He’s square with Ben, a simulation of a fight ready within the restricted professional environment, from which it is Ben who steps down begrudgingly.   
“Fair enough…”

Harry is quick to try to unwind the situation, a tentatively bright offer of, “we can do plenty of lift shots when the official costumes come in...”, shot down immediately with a curt,   
“Yeah, cheers Harry,” and another other room phonecall, notable less jovial as the ones before.   
  
The tension in the room drops. Louis is free to dedicate all energy to ignoring the pounding in his head after the weight comment.   
  
**   
  
The shots Harry asks for are considerably more subtle from the get go, the product of an understanding of the source material that comes with attending as many rehearsals as he has. He pays meticulous attention to details in each pose, calm and careful guidance that is almost fascinating in itself, each direction so close in succession that neither Louis or Thomas have the time to be petty or distasteful, too involved in getting everything right to assuage any gnawing paranoia. Louis can’t decide whether it’s due to the resemblance to class, an environment which demands inherent respect, or the fact that he kind of can’t take his eyes off him when he should be looking off to the side, or even at Thomas. Maybe a mix of the two, because he can’t quite part with the idea of Harry as ballet master right now; a worthy distraction, albeit highly unprofessional.   
  
Harry seems to echo that observation when he notices, a formal remark attempting to cover the telltale dimple.   
“Looking at Thomas, Lou.”   
  
A misstep. Louis doesn’t immediately notice, not until he recognises how Thomas has stiffened, a dubious frown propped on his face. Harry, clearly frazzled, tries to move them along into a more intimate position - Louis’ back to Thomas’ front, both sets of arms wrapped around Louis - and draw the attention back from himself. Harry guides (somewhat hesitantly) Louis’ head to the space between Thomas’ neck and right shoulder, leaning back into him as Thomas faces slightly inward. Eyes closed, the habitual panic makes its home once again, though to his credit Thomas remains a steady backdrop while Louis is instructed to go en pointe. They only get to hear the shutter click twice before opening doors disturb the scene, followed by a girlish giggle and a teasing “OoooOooOooh!” that seems to make every muscle in Thomas’ body taut.   
  
“Good!” Harry announces, a little shaky, “Eleanor’s here! We’ll take a break while she gets changed?”

He rushes out with her and the makeup artist, so that they only hear an uncertain “Oh um, sure?” and laugh, then an understanding “Ohhh…” followed by what must be an exchange with Ben, complete with overly-pleasant introductions. Louis goes to down more water, his bottle thankfully as far away from the set (and Thomas) as possible. And yet, not far enough. Thomas wastes no time in following him there.   
  
“You fucking the photographer?” he leans on the opposite wall, apparently cool and collected, a humourless smirk as if he’s caught a suspicious partner cheating. Louis silently takes another sip. Thomas tries to corner him back in, not even a glance back to check whether anyone’s back in the room yet.   
  


“You fucking are, aren’t you?”   
  
Tedious. That’s what this has become. He’s too fucking tired to humour him and let it slide this time, and he’s too tired to theorise whether he’s suddenly sick of it because he hasn’t eaten properly - even by his standards of ‘properly’ - in a good couple days, or whether he can risk stepping up because someone will be back in the room soon enough and really, even if they’re not, he’s too out of it to consider the fact that he probably shouldn’t have this confrontation at what is essentially work. Ultimately though, he really just wants this break to be an actual fucking break, and that is the thought process to win out.

He speaks, measured and level in the beginning, with pure dazed satisfaction of speaking one’s mind, however hazy it is.   
  
“Actually… and you might be surprised to hear this Thomas, so bear with me, but it’s genuinely none of your fucking business.”   
“Right, y--”   
“I don’t think you heard me correctly, because unless you are actively on my fucking dick, riding off into the merry fucking sunset, you don’t have a fucking right to know where it goes. Unless Harry is literally sucking me off on set and we’re here all day and night trying to get the photos done, you don’t get to know shit about him either.”   
Hushed, verging on... apologetic? “Okay shit, Tomlinso--”   
“Let me ask you this. Are you fucking Eleanor? Are you fucking the makeup artist or the hair stylist? Are you fucking Ben? Are you fucking Madame?”   
“Louis--”   
“Is that how you got Palemon? You’re always on my arse about this fucking role as if you’re the only one who’s clocked on to the fact that I’m a man playing a woman as if that wasn’t the entire point. How  _ did  _ you get Palemon? Because actually, me asking all of this is relevant, since whoever you’re fucking can’t be doing a very good job if you’re so bloody tense all the time.”   
  
Someone clears their throat. It’s neither one of them.

“We should…” Harry starts to say from the threshold, hand awkwardly placed in his hair, “Maybe reset…”   
Eleanor looks delighted.   
  
**   
  
The group shots fly relatively seamlessly, though are remarkably quiet save for Harry’s occasional pleas for Eleanor to stop grinning. Surprisingly, the outburst - which in hindsight may have reached higher volumes that originally intended - seems to have actually helped Ondine and Palemon’s chemistry, Thomas diligently playing his part of devoted lover and barely paying any attention to Eleanor as Berta. Though Louis’ head is still cloudy, he’s gotten to the stage where he’s ready to just go home and sleep, spent in all manners of his physical, mental and emotional forms.

Last of all are the headshots, which involve each of them lying separately underneath the raised tank, lights hitting the water in cascades of shadows across the floor to create an underwater illusion. When it’s Louis’ turn, the other staff fixing the fabric around him is far more uncomfortable than the fact that he's lying on the floor, spine against cold linoleum, though even that is forgotten when he meets Harry’s eyes and camera through the pool.    
  
A nonverbal expression of ‘ready?’ and a consequent grin exchanged for a nod. Between every couple of shots, Harry takes a look through them, follows with instructions, and stumbles into sheepish smiles every time he finds Louis still looking back at him. It’s something of a game, Louis realises, derivative only of this kind of delirious state, that comes quite in handy for characterisation, though he doubts he would get scolded for it even if it wasn’t.   
  
Somehow that Ondine is the most natural of all.    
  
Maybe it’s the water.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this time you get two messes instead of one !1
> 
> take it as an apology for this unannounced hiatus apparently i don't know what a regular schedule is and never have since ive been writing this for three bloody years despite having the full plot worked out from the beginning... 
> 
> in any case, much like Louis i am TIRED so i hope these are okay, do let me know if they're not.
> 
> as infrequently always, thank you for reading, why are you reading, much appreciated.
> 
> xx


	23. Chapter 23

Post-photoshoot damage control is nothing compared to the agony that is the next day.  
  
Harry must be fresh out of a meeting with Madame since they enter the room together, her face bearing the slightest memory of a warm smile before being replaced with her usual cool disposition as soon as they part ways. He has to shorten his strides to make his walk towards Louis seem more casual than purposeful and ‘yearning’, as Eleanor had apparently described it, and he plops himself down, cross-legged.   
  
“Doing better today?”   
Louis misses replacing the cap back on his water bottle. “Sorry?”

“Yesterday you showed up a little woozy. Have you had lunch already?”  
  
Is it possible Harry had only heard the tail-end of Louis’ Thomas outburst, or had at least suffered amnesia since he went home the night before, possibly resulting from banging his head on the desktop at the studio after going through the photos and realising he’s way out of Louis’ league? Louis had assumed this would be the central talking point since he’d gone from what looked like full modesty in the changing room together, to yelling about potential blowjobs to his dance partner. The first night in a while he’d had his flat to himself and of course he spent half the time thinking about Harry, initially happy dream thoughts about proving Niall and Eleanor and even bloody Thomas right until the high had passed, and the thought of a conversation about any of it tasted much the same way as the hours he spent in the bathroom reversing the elated luxury of snacking on the leftovers Harry had left in his fridge.

  
“Right. Yeah, no, all good. Feel like, proper bloated.”   
“Don’t look it! Not that, you do, usually. You look great.”   
  
He very well should, after all that blood. Getting knocked out of his normal rhythm always does that though, because taking it too far means there’s bound to be a chasm or drop by which time neither part of him works and it’s all biology and whatever is available. Maybe he lets it then, succumbs to it, and that makes him weak, but it’s easier to rein in now without causing too much damage; one step back instead of twenty. Still one step, mind, but that’s easier to punish, maybe two days off and then back to the bare minimum. He’s trained in it all now.

 

It’s hardly the best system but the tea should’ve cleared out the rest of it, and provided he doesn’t allow it to happen again he should be back on track. Harry, considering his rose-tinted view of everything and in particular Louis, is far from credible, but it’s all the same compliments and blind endorsements. Louis switches legs to stretch.  
“Not bad yourself. How was your meeting?”

 

Harry runs over a vague summary with bizarrely chosen details, spanning the pastries that Madame did not indulge in - Louis chuckles at Harry’s mortified reaction to this - and the series of selected shots that were up for approval. He doesn’t elaborate on which these are, or, indeed, what Madame said about them, though Louis doubts he would recount any harsh critique she had made anyway. Instead, he treads the anxiety like water, making a note to find and scrutinise these photos in his own time.

  
Harry pulls him back to the surface with a change of topic.

“So… now you’ve met my boss! Thoughts?”  
“Right prick,” no deeper thought needed.   
“Lou!”   
“Those are my thoughts. Think he’s a wanker and he doesn’t deserve you working for him.”   
Harry considers for a moment, sitting back on his heels.   
“I don’t think you’re being fair. Anyway, it’s probably the other way around, Ben is brilliant at what he does.”   
“What, bossing you around?”   
“Katie’s not much nicer to you, even though she respects you a whole lot… What’s the difference?”   
He’s still convinced the supposed ‘respect’ Harry always references is another infatuated interpretation. It’s a nicer lie than Louis could pull off so sincerely.   
“They need it. I need it. Kat-- Madame needs to be like that, that’s part of her job. Ben does it to feel superior and he’s full of shit, I don’t care if his photos are God’s gift to mankind, it’s no excuse. You’ve got the same job and yet you can afford to treat people with basic human kindness...”   
“It’s a status thing!”   
  
Louis laughs at the desperate counter, leaning back with the slightest click and bringing his right thigh to his chest. Exhale.   
“You telling me you’re gonna be like Ben when someone tells you you could get away with it?”   
“If, not when. Maybe. Who knows.”   
He snorts. “Bollocks. Your photos are great, and you’re the anti-Ben personality-wise. You’ll make it big, sitting in some shithole cafe in like… Prague…”   
Harry’s eyes light up, “New York!”   
“Fine, New York, and you’ll be having your nasty peppermint mochaccino chai latte with soy milk and a dick design made from matcha powder thinking, ‘man, that asshole at the Royal Ballet was right about everything. What was his name again? Leonard?’”   
“No way!” Harry laughs, though Louis looks back at him with the most serious expression he can manage.   
  
“I’m psychic. That’s what’s going to happen.”     
“What about you, then, psychic?,” Harry shifts closer to him which, coupled with the gently teasing tone makes Louis somewhat nervous, “Are you gonna be like Madame when you’re running the company? Or, sorry, would it be Monsieur?”   
“That’d be a laugh,” another crack, “Probably would, cane and all...”   
“Louis Tomlinson won’t dance forever?”   
_If only..._   
“Louis Tomlinson will dance til the day he dies. You’ll see me making wheelchair pirouettes at your local nursing home…”   
“And I’ll take pictures on my old DSLR, compare it to the ‘good old days’...”   
_Oh._   
“Are we nursing home roommates?” Louis asks, a quirked eyebrow and mimicked teasing tone to disguise the fact that this particular alleyway of conversation activates his fight or flight response. A flustered Harry’s less successful at hiding it, though he tries his best nonetheless.   
“You’re the psychic, you tell me.”   
“All of that’s bollocks. You take suggestions from the customers to make them feel better…”   
“So…”   
“So I’d probably smack you over the head for taking photos at the ‘ballet’…”   
“I’ll take it.”   


He sits up, crossing his own legs, and hopes for his next to be a clean closing statement as he rummages through his duffel bag for his pointe shoes.  
“But I maintain, Ben is a royal prick and you deserve so much better.”   
  
“Speaking of pricks…”   
He should be so lucky…   
“Scandalous. Technically we are both at work, though, so maybe later…”   
“No I mean… Oh, you’re joking.”   
“Not at all. Quick ‘un in the changing rooms when everyone’s gone? I’m game.”   
He’s not even really kidding. They might be together, whatever together really means, but the self-hatred is burning after the night before, and he might as well ride out the fasting and failing self-destructive high in old days style.   
  
“Actually meant about Thomas, Lou.”   
No chance.   
“Oh. Well, he’s probably game too. Zayn has…” _touchy,_ pause. “...had a whole theory about it. Closeted homophobe and that? Classic.”   
Harry’s characteristic Louis-frown deepens, more grave and serious. “Is he always like that with you?”   
“Theorising? Usually it’s Niall, but Zayn did a module in psychology and occasionally thinks himself a modern Freud. Much like you, actually. That bloody desert test…”   
“Thomas, Lou.”   
“Oh. Like what?”   
“Using slurs and… like, just being uncomfortably close, asking personal questions?”   
Louis smirks, pointed at him with one of the shoes, “like you’re doing?”   
“No! I mean, shit, I don’t mean to--”   
“Joking. I told you, theory. You have Zayn’s number.” another pause, the snarky remarks far too fluid for his liking, smoother than his stitching, that’s for sure.   
  
“Might have to make a tattoo appointment to see him though, since he’s a bit of an enigma these days but, worth a shot.”   
Harry’s turn to pause, a frown fallen into straight pity. “Oh. Have you not…”   
“What?”   
“Nevermind, I’m sure it’s…”   
“Fucking _what_ , Harry?”   
“He’s, um… He’s gone to Berlin, actually. Convention, then travelling.”   


It’s not like… well, it is, actually, it is a shock. So stupid and menial and insignificant, really, because it’s for work, isn’t it? And yet Louis feels nauseous instantly, stomach dropped down to his feet, the chill of being forgotten, disregarded… by his best friend, mind. One of his best fucking friends, supposedly. Fucking Berlin. Louis doesn’t tell Zayn how many pairs of pointe shoes he gets through in a week, or where he signs in, or how he needs to buy paracetamol from two different shops because there’s a limit to how many packs you can buy at once in case someone tries to off themselves. Because friends don’t talk about work, do they? Friends talk about… Nothing much, these days, actually. Fucking Berlin.   
  
“He probably just forgot! He only got booked in like, a couple of days before they left, I think… Maybe…”   


Except he’s sure he’s not crazy to think a friend would tell you if he was leaving the country. Text you he’s landed. Probably call you before he goes out for beers and to chat shit about Heathrow security because the wankers are bound to ‘randomly select’ him somewhere along the way. Just to let you know he’s safe, right? Or boasting even, because the fucker is excited and wants to show off, and all the power to him, because when will you get the chance to travel and say it’s for work? Bloody lucky dickhead, ain’t he? In fucking Berlin. Or even update you on the funny mishaps tripping him up along the way, so you can collectively sigh at this weird period on the verge of adulthood. He probably didn’t pack his bags until the last minute. Maybe forgot cash to pay the taxi driver, had to run through the airport because he went to the wrong gate… Without a fucking word.

  
“I thought he would have told you...”   


Louis stabs the needle back into the shoe.  
“I would’ve thought so too. Thanks Harry.”   
“I’m sorry…”   
“Not your fault, is it. Mine. Couldn’t keep my mouth shut about his Shithead friend and I couldn’t keep my mouth shut about Thomas. Who, to answer your question, has been a consistent cunt to me in particular.”   
“Louis, you should have said…”   
He puts down the shoes, meeting his eyes,“Should I? Because I’m getting the opposite impression about _saying_ things these days...”   
  
Harry stops to think, as if mulling over the correct way to approach this. He shifts so that they’re sitting side by side, which removes the observation aspect that so bothers Louis but becomes a new issue altogether should he let himself get upset by this. After some time to recollect he lets his head fall to lean on Harry’s shoulder, clearing his throat and diverting all focus back to sewing, hands tipped to reflect the new angle. Harry continues.   
  
“I wouldn’t leave you in a room alone with him if you told me… What if something happened?”   
“He’s at work, Haz, he can’t pull anything serious even if he wanted to, which I doubt. All talk, that one, and not my type at _all_ so you have no reason to worry.”   
A playful nudge accompanies the suggestion, and Harry smiles briefly before interlacing his fingers with Louis’. He kind of can’t breathe, and only slightly because he’s still holding the needle between finger and thumb and Harry is playing a very dangerous game in that sense.   
“I’m not worried, not like that. Him acting that way _is_ serious though, and you’d think so too if Ben was like that with me.”   
He _really_ can’t breathe. Louis pulls his hand away, makes another stitch.   
“He’s getting there. And if he ever does, you might not have a job to go to anymore, and we’ll have to have tea dates in prison because I will genuinely deck him.”   
“See?” Harry gestures wildly, as if he’s just made his point.   
“Not the same! I can handle Thomas. Ben straight up takes advantage of you.”   
“What was it you said? About being at work and not doing anything serious?”   
Louis groans.   
  
“Are we not going to talk about the sucking dick bit? I thought that’d be funny at least, if not mildly uncomfortable. This is just bumming me out more...”   
Harry looks positively puzzled.   
“What?”   
  
_Oops._   
  
“Nevermind. Um. Thomas might know about us though, if you want to be loud and proud about this or…”   
Another light in his eyes. Louis fears he might grow a tendency to hold back just to see it more often when he gives in.   
“You sure?”   
“Maybe not at work but… Like, I’ve already told Niall and Eleanor so people know…”   
“Katie knows.”   
  
He pulls back so that Harry can see the full expression of utter dismay on his face.

“Excuse me, _what_ ?”   
“Was I not supposed to? You said closest friends would be okay to do first!”   
“‘Closest friends’ does not equate to my literal boss oh my _God_ , Harry…”   
“You could tell Ben about us?” he offers, with full knowledge he’s going to be shot down, “make us even?”   
“If I was a 6”7 weightlifter, sure. Then he’d _know_ he’d better not mess with you rather than... it being implied.”

“You could be a tough guy, no problem!”

Louis gives him another look.

“First time we met I was in a _dress_ …”   
“And you looked great! Katie thought so too. Though she did say the costume mock-ups are a lot different to accomodate, you know, actual dancing.”

 

“Back on your feet, I need Parker, Tomlinson! We’ll have the people from the port scene first.”

 

Sounds of scrambling dancers and sighs replace the casual chatter, all bound towards the source of the booming announcement. Louis too is habitually quick to his feet, though it does send all the blood rushing to his head so that he needs to subtly steady himself on the wall behind them.

  
“Speaking of the devil, gotta go, Hazza.”

Harry looks up at him, shamelessly grinning with those stupidly bright eyes despite the inquisitive eyebrow Louis gives back. His explanation does little to help the bizarre reaction.  
“Sounds like ‘hazard’ the way you say it.”   
“‘cos you are, aren’t you? Making me throw everything out the window and be like, a real thing.”

_Bright idea that, willingly bringing up the very thing you’ve been avoiding talking about ever since that day on the stage. Fucking wanker._

  
He looks concerned again, _of course he fucking does,_ ready at beck and call to step back and accommodate as bloody always, “you’re not…”  
“Backing out? No, not at all. Just, um… Preparing to get hurt.”

 

_Fucking. Wanker._

 

Harry looks almost wounded by the confession, as if the very concept of Louis doubting his intentions was a physical affront. He tries to reassure, soft and low,   
“Wouldn’t hurt you Lou,” which naturally is the kind of naive bollocks you would expect from local romantic Harry Styles. Louis has a hard time not snorting at it, and were it literally anyone else on the planet, he’d mock them til the end of time itself.

 

But trust fucking Harry to have to always be so bloody different, because he can’t bring himself to make a joke about something so earnest, albeit endlessly foolish.

 

Criticism, however, is justified.

  
“Yeah, well, you don’t plan that kind of thing, do you?”   
Harty considers that, bless him, before following on with the same steadfast ardour.

“No… but if anyone’s going to get hurt it’s going to be me. When it’s opening night and some hotshot critic offers you all of the fame and you’ll have your pick of men… easy to forget ol’ Holmes Chapel Harry Styles...”  
Louis rolls his eyes, “you’re ridiculous… I have to go.”

“Already! He’s calling your name!”  
“Yeah, and his name is ‘Second Act pas de deux’...”   
“A frenchman? I never stood a chance!”

“Unbelievable...”

 

He probably shouldn’t, definitely, definitely shouldn’t, but Harry’s there and Harry’s acting dramatically woeful, so, before he can talk himself out of it he kisses him on his stupid big mouth and doesn’t particularly care that people might be looking, all focus on the fact that it shakes Harry off guard a little (a lot), but he follows it like it’s a current all the same.

 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”  
  
He nods, slowly, then grins, and Louis tries to feel ashamed for giving in to the impulse, for maintaining and facilitating the illusion, because that will make the break so much more painful when it all inevitably falls apart… but he really can’t. Not with that bloody grin.   
  
A hazard indeed.

 

Before he can catch up to the other dancers - Thomas already going through one-to-one critique - he catches Madame’s eyes on him from the other side of the room, stood by the doors with her still-folded cane held in her hand. He thinks for a minute she’s been waiting for him to finish with Harry, but it seems to be the other way around, as she starts to make her way over to him so that they meet halfway, out of earshot of the rest of the class. She speaks politely, but without any warmth.  
  
“Can I have a word, Louis?”   
“Sure.”   
They step out of the studio, into the corridor, her short heel clicks a stark contrast to Louis’ padded shuffle. She turns to face him.   
“I’ll cut to the chase, since we’re both very busy at this time.”   
“Okay.”   
“We need you to slim down.”   
  
His breath catches in his throat, but he swallows it whole. And that’s the problem isn’t it? Even so, he remains as composed as he can possibly scrape together.   
  
“Yes, of course.”   
“It shouldn’t affect your fittings based on the final designs, but ideally we’ll need you down before dress rehearsals so that everything looks alright. If you want to take a longer break to see the dietician…”   
“No that’s... fine, actually.”   
“Right well, if you focus on the legs, especially the thighs, should be fine.”   
“Yes. Okay. Sorry.”   
She checks her watch.   
“Not your mistake, it was already under consideration.”   
  
This time she must notice, because it feels like his chest collapses entirely.   
  
“Am I…?”   
“Not at all. But the girls are built differently, and we need you to fit in more seamlessly. We’re going for willowy, lithe.” _Not short and squat,_ “The photos will do fine, but for the performance…”   
“Of course. Yes.”   
“Very good. I’ll check in with you soon.”   
  
She unfolds the cane, the wood coming together as if it was never apart, and lends a third click to her march out of the building as the metronome to Louis’ undoing. He considers going back despite the shaking, the nausea, the aching, his lungs like blowing air into a damp paper bag. But a step back, the grating crunch of bone against bone, and he stumbles with the rest of his force to the toilets where, producing only a hot abundance of his own self-disgust, he retches until he can’t hold his head up above the toilet seat anymore, slumping down with throat and eyes and knuckles all stinging as one.   
  
“Where were you?” Thomas asks him later, when he comes back bleary and forgets an arabesque somewhere along the stabbing pain in what’s left of his chest.   
  
“Dietician.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy 1D day lmao  
> (i saw someone refer to it as 1Dead recently and i've not been the same since literally the funniest thing ive seen in ages)
> 
> in other news (plug plug plug) you can also now find me on 45teid.tumblr.com to be reassured that i'm just going through some writer's block/busy with work and not literally dead
> 
>  
> 
> xx


	24. Chapter 24

“I sound like a wanker.”   
“Nah...”

 

Niall fixes his glasses, leafing through the article again. They’re on borrowed time, with Niall’s assignment already in the seven-day late submission period and Louis skipping his lunch date with Harry, but the dingy Starbucks they chose to convene provides a temporary shelter for the tense evaluation of the promotional Ondine article.

 

_ “I was the only boy in my ballet class in my hometown. When some of the girls started [pointe work] at 11 and 12 I insisted I learn too, every session, until the teacher gave in to humour me. [She] probably figured I’d get sick of it and quit anyway, but I [… ] went on to get pretty good at it, though I never performed.” _

 

“Didn’t you say you rambled about Doncaster for ages?”   
“Yeah, she cut most of it out...” saving a sizeable paragraph compared to Eleanor and Thomas’ ‘(city)-born’... at least there was that.   
“Most of--- How long did you talk for?”   
“I don’t know, a while? It was relevant at first, but then I got nervous so I kept going...” and going, and going. In his defence, a remarkably safe and neutral strategy.   
“Well if ballet doesn’t work out you could always be a travel agent!”    
“Honestly might have to...”   
  
Niall raises an eyebrow at the next paragraph, spanning Louis’ formal education, “She’s really hellbent on the dropping out, huh?”   
“Right? I sound like a flight risk.”   
He refrains from commenting, but the pause says enough.    
Instead, “Was it that one we met at Harry’s gallery thing?”   
Oh yes, Taylor. An interview with whom would probably be its own circle of hell.   
“No, someone else.”   
“So no  _ ‘classy’ _ nudes? A shame. Harry would have a field day.”   
“Doubt it. They’d be with Thomas, so one of us would probably end up dead...”   
  
He half-expects Niall to bring up Louis’ outburst, but he doesn’t, just turns the page and skims the second half of Louis’ part of the article like he needs a vaguely relevant source to add to his reference list. He sounds like it too, pointing to the first statement to call out some blatant plagiarism.

 

“You didn’t say this bit, ‘Ondine is a forgotten treasure’-blah blah blah. That’s a Classic novel blurb. Please tell me you called it The Little Mermaid by accident and she had to draft something else to avoid copyright?”   
“She took bits from Eleanor’s interview. Also cut out the part where I call the whole thing ‘foolish’...”   
“Mate… You actually can’t sell for shit...”   
  
_ “Ondine is the embodiment of the fairytale aspect, that’s all her. She’s really idealistic and devoted, kind of classic maiden naivete... Berta’s a bit more down to earth, stubborn, possessive, even, though you can hardly blame her. They’re very much opposites, water and land, and the dichotomy of that makes Palemon choose between them.” _

 

“Cute… and PICTURES! Travel agent or model, you’ve got  _ options _ …”   
“Hate that one,” he points vaguely to one of the full page spreads, because ultimately he hates them all and it doesn’t matter which Niall thinks he’s talking about, “I don’t know why they didn’t edit this bit...” the legs, tragic. He can so see what Madame meant, and split between never wanting to see the pictures again and actively dissecting everything that’s Wrong, he’s making steady efforts to fix it. 

“What are you on about, you look great. What did the hubby say?”

“ _ Harry _ is not a reliable source.”

“‘ _ Ya arse looks grea’ babe, ten ootta ten.’ _ ”

 

“...The fuck was that?”

“I’m working on my impression of him before we meet up. Ooh, for your birthday, we should do a pub crawl, bet you he’s a right laugh when he’s drunk.”

“I’ll be busy with Nutcracker. Is the close-up okay?”

Niall frowns again, a little… irritated?   
“Yeah? Thomas looks as punchable as ever and Eleanor remains a strong Avoid, so they’re real accurate. You, however, look proper darling. And fine, have I mentioned fine? Like, nothing-to-stress-about fine?”   
He changes his mind about feedback on the pictures; of course no one’s going to look at them properly. “Read the next bit, you’ll see what I mean.”

 

_ “So, after Ondine, where do you see yourself in 5, 10 years?” _ _  
_ _ “Dancing, hopefully. When I can’t, I’d like to teach. [...] I think maybe it’d be nice to offer lessons to younger students too, when it’s still just fun, before it gets competitive. Maybe [...] prepare them for that, tell them not to become it.” _

  
“And… I don’t. What’s your problem with this, it’s great!”   
“My mum’s gonna see this. And she’s going to wonder how she managed to raise such a prat.”   
Niall manages to look so exhausted by this conversation that his glasses are on the verge of giving up too, hanging on the very bridge of his nose. Their owner just sighs a grudging follow-up.   
“What’s wrong with it?”   
“I sound like a pretentious asshole. Like, I did a couple solos and now I can just start a school… Like I could teach anyone anything of value...”

  
“You literally sound fine. Cold and professional, where it’s still alluring and mysterious and not ‘what’s that guy’s problem?’, topped off with the winning ‘this guy is good with kids too? what a dream’. And I know you hate to give yourself any kind of credit but the fact is you _could_ teach and you’d be fucking great at it. People are gonna read this and want to meet you but then settle to see the show. Hell, I want to meet this guy, and you’re already here, just disguised as a fucking pussy.”  
“Thanks.”  
“Ondine will be a hit and your bosses will see you’re a golden cash cow, casting you as all the parts ever so that the Royal Ballet becomes the one man show Tomlinson company and they have to pay you royalties for every leaflet they print. _Then_ you’ll finally have enough money for a real life qualified therapist who can talk you through this shit and not have like ten looming deadlines to juggle...” he makes a show of placing the magazine on the table in front of Louis, finalising all criticism. Louis is far from convinced.  
“I don’t know…”

“Well guess what, you don’t have to! You did your job showing up, just like Harry did his by taking the photos and the interviewer did her’s and so on. It’s done. Forget it now.”   
  


The increasingly agitated tone stops there, Niall taking a second to regain some composure with another sigh, another shake of their head. Louis wonders if this is the first or last sign, since he missed them in Zayn. What’s the thing he should say? What does Harry usually do?

  
It takes a lengthy silence, but he gets there.

“Is everything, like… cool? With you?”

 

Niall raises an eyebrow at the question, but answers genuinely.   
“Just, like, stressed loads.”

“Oh.” He hadn’t expected him to be honest.

“Yeah.”

He tries his own brand of honesty, “sorry to bother you about this then…”   
It only sounds jaded.

“You know what, man, yeah. Thanks.”   
It’s falling, this is the fall. Maybe he’s dropping the ball or he never had it in the first place, but he imagines the next conversation with Harry where he finds out Niall’s living it up in Jamaica or something, and he throws himself back in, hoping something sticks.

  
“We can… talk about it… if you want.”

“We aren’t like that man. I’m fine. Forget about it, just fix your head about all this bollocks and do the show right.”

He’s scared to ask, “are you still coming?”

“Yeah man. Wouldn’t miss it.”

The smile is not enough, apparently, because Niall reads the uneasiness on Louis’ face in a second.

“We’re good. I’m not mad, mate, promise. Just can’t deal with this right now. I got a lot on my plate.”

 

Quietly, “sorry.”   
  


Niall shakes his head.

“Nah. I should’ve just said I was busy. I know you get all up here about this shit and need a proper sit down. Harry should have time, isn’t the promo bit over?”   
It’s not, they’ve still got dress rehearsals to shoot. Meanwhile he has Ben’s projects to manage - who’s terribly busy travelling - which somehow makes Harry more busy than he ever was with his own stuff. Cancelling their lunch date was probably the kindest thing to do, judging by how exhausted he looked last time they saw each other. The lack of update texts only further suggests he’s still sleeping off a late studio night, tucked into Louis’ bed where he left him that morning.   
“Yeah. I guess.”   
“He’ll take care of you, right?”   
A stiff nod. He just wants to go and drown this particular mistake in rehearsals. Or better yet, just jump into the Thames. Serve him right for wasting everyone’s time with insecurities he’ll never get past anyway. Niall is right. He should’ve just shut up and mulled over everything on his own.    
He gets up, pulls his bag up to his shoulder, “see you later then.”

“See you bro. Take care.”

  
***

 

He can’t think about any of that now, having embarked wholeheartedly on a new, tighter routine following the feedback from Madame and seeing his own weaknesses in rehearsals. He’s constructed a timetable in his mind by now, a clean-cut diagram of predictable-Harry’s daily routine from which to work with, and finds himself almost excited by it all.    
  
If he can get himself up in time then he’s got a free house while Harry goes jogging. He can get back into bed, then has a couple of minutes to weigh-in, see what he can afford as Harry makes breakfast. Louis takes his to go, goes to the studio. If he hadn’t woken up he has some time to purge before warm-up, then they have class. Harry comes to visit, he’s had his lunch. Rehearsals. Break, if its a food day he has something, goes up to the top floor bathrooms. Rehearsals. Break, he does pointe. Rehearsals, Harry comes to pick him up. They go home together. Harry makes dinner if Louis can’t distract him otherwise, the approach largely dependent on the eating schedule that day.    
  
If he’s had lunch he can just about manage most things, but the rare times he caves in to dinner he generally focuses on Harry, which, despite his half-hearted protests that it's not fair if he doesn’t reciprocate, he keens to immediately, afterwards either too fucked out to notice anything, or straight up just falling asleep. Either way, another couple of hours for Louis. He would have thought it would get old at some point, boring, but every time Harry acts like it’s the first, and Louis can’t help but feel guilty over how pliable he is.

 

Fasting days knock him out entirely and he just admits he’s tired or says he feels sick and sometimes can avoid dinner altogether, but even then has moments of weakness where Harry offers to make him tea and he can’t sit up at the table to watch him do it. Ginger is 1, Mint is 2. If he can’t stand he’ll blindly agree to Yorkshire tea and then conjure a quick quip that Harry thinks he can’t do the milk and sugar himself, and then pour what would have been 35 down the sink when Harry’s not looking. Incidentally, swallowing remains a debate that Louis wouldn’t be able to settle without spitting into a measuring cylinder, but in the interest of not looking like an actual freak he figures he can afford that particular gamble for the free hours.

 

Sometimes Ben will demand him at some ungodly hour, and Harry will apologise endlessly as he runs off, leaving Louis an extra couple hours. In those cases he has a laugh at first, but then finds himself obsessively wondering what they might be doing, and relinquishes all other control to auto-pilot, which then takes the opportunity to lead him into the kitchen. Usually though Harry doesn’t come back home, or naps at the studio and then trudges in as Louis is leaving, so it’s another free window of time nonetheless.

 

He’s already made some progress, showed up to fittings just barely conscious, but there’s still a longways to go before opening night. 

 

“If you go see Jane she’s got the first week of your shoes.” Sarah tells him when they’re done, noting down the final string on numbers as he sits down to get redressed in all the extra layers, praying that the break is enough to stop his head spinning so he can walk out of the costume department unscathed. 

“Just the first?”

“She wants you to double check the make and fit before we get the whole lot. You can start trialling them in dress by now, should be the same everything as your old ones.”   
“Wouldn’t have lost weight in my feet, would I?”  _ Shut up. _   
“You know how it is,” she sets the measuring tape aside, “Might come with you just to see them again, love a blue shoe…”   
“Didn’t go with white?”   
“Oh pale  _ pale _ blue. Hold on, I’ll bring out the fabric swatches and you’ll see, they match up perfectly.”

 

Doesn’t take much consideration before Louis takes the opportunity to scour her notebook for his measurements, checking if they match up with the ones he took at home. When he hears more filing, sorting through papers, he takes another glance at the ones noted above, marked ‘EC.2 - B’, then the ones marked ‘TP.1 - P’, quickly comparing the three sets. Funny how his mental maths only seems to get better these days, albeit with more effort to stay concentrated.    
  
Crashing. Footsteps. He sits back down. 

“There it is!” she announces proudly, handing him a concept board with early sketches and different squares of fabric attached to the paper in little even rows. She points him to the final selection, layered in three different shades; two light, watery blue, one white.   
“Mmm. Translucent.”   
“It’ll be layered, light to lightest. Like Fonteyn’s but boat-neck, keeping the empire waist, should hit mid-thigh. Stitching here so that it curls up.”   
“Mid-thigh?”   
“You’ll have the tights underneath, we had to masculinize the style a little. Beading along here…”   
“Does the  _ beading  _ help with that?”   
“Very masculine beading!”   
  


Louis takes the sketches in hand, analysing the thin pen strokes, the illegible notes. 

“It looks beautiful.”   
“It’ll look more beautiful on opening night! Can’t wait to see it on you.”   
“Mmm.”   
  
The routine remains a trade secret - not that he could tell anyone anyway - but it’s different enough to warrant the excitement, a break from the plateau of eating the bare minimum to go to work and then getting rid of any slip ups. Eating less than, with scheduled purges as soon as he doesn’t need it anymore, means incredibly dizzy train journeys home and generally everywhere, but having Harry around at least keeps him from walking into traffic by accident. He can’t think of much anymore, so he’s not thinking of Zayn, and he can’t beat himself up over being stupid about Niall. It’s all going so well. 

 

Exhilarating as it all is, rushing would be the downfall of this particular plan, and he can’t have that, not with the show coming up so soon. 

 

If only he could get it all right, he could call Jay. Finally give her something to be proud about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello ! i disappeared bc i didn't want to be like Niall here in the aforementioned 7 day late submission period.  
> also this was originally supposed to be the full interview (which incidentally is all written up lmao) but i decided against a full chapter of exposition in favour of Niall.
> 
> questions/comments/concerns you can hmu at 45teid.tumblr.com plug plug plug
> 
> hope everyone is having a lovely holiday season and i thank you all for your continued support.
> 
> xx


	25. Chapter 25

“Almost opening night!” Harry trills from the kitchen table, half-dressed and drawing a countdown on the correct month of Louis' calendar. He forgot to tear it down, apparently.

“Mm.” 

A biiiig circle. The smell of sharpie makes him a little nauseous, but he still peaks over Harry’s shoulder to see the masterpiece around the quickly decreasing number of days; a little blue ship bordered with waves. He only just catches a whiff of his own shampoo on Harry’s hair, not yet dry, only just debates getting a nicer one before deciding that he kind of likes it like that.

Harry turns to face him, “You excited?” 

“Course.”

 

He smiles, hooking his arm around Louis’ waist to reel him in. Except he almost jumps at the brush of contact and slaps Harry’s wrist away a half-second later, as if to jokingly scold him for something he should be fine with by now.

“Have to go!” 

“Already?”   
Disappointed! Louis has to rein himself back from smirking a little at that, full knowledge of how unsustainable this state is. The longer he lets it go on the more it just feels like a dumb daydream though, so all the looming consequences that should read as warning signs look like bunting Louis can take down when he wakes up, light and easy and not at all real. Can he really be held accountable for enjoying this make-believe adoration while it lasts? Can he bear the blame of wishing for it, facilitating it, until there’s none left?

“ _ ‘Almost opening night’  _ you said. And I need to clean up that one bit before Madame sees it with all the blocking. All that  _ before  _ class.”   
  
That light again, wild, well-rested thought. Louis would kill for a full night’s sleep like that.

“Do it here!”

“What?”

“Dance with me!” he laces his hands with Louis’, “Like in the pas de deux you do!”

“I know I chat shit about this apartment but I have a landlord that wouldn't be too happy if I let you wreak havoc in here…”

Harry frowns. “What do you mean?”

“You’re not exactly Beauty and Grace, Miss United States…”

“I can dance!”    
Louis raises an eyebrow, so he performs a flamboyant disco move to demonstrate.

“With or without casualties?”

Harry’s turn to slap Louis away with a theatrical gasp, “Rude!”

“I have a deposit!”   
“And zero faith in me...”   
“In this field? Minimal.”   
“I’d trust you with a camera…”

 

Maybe it’s the pout. The soft, damp curls that frame it. Bare thighs in pretty blushed pink, blooming mauve where he bumped into the front door handle and darker where Louis had to distract him the night before. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s so cleanly assimilated to Louis’ place that he’s just become an additional feature, or the already tempting idea that he wants him to stay. Or, maybe it’s just the thought of going back to Ondine, to slave over that sequence in front of floor length mirrors, with Madame’s concerns plastered in all the crooks and crevices of his mind… Maybe he wants to hear something else instead.   
  
“Oh go on then.”   
Genuine surprise, “really?”   
“I’ll stay for a bit, and we’ll swap. You do my thing and I do yours.”   
“Seriously?”   
He throws his duffle bag at him, kicking his shoes off.   
“Not that lighthearted when your expensive camera equipment is at stake, is it…”   
Harry poses a quizzical expression, “What’s competitive Louis like, I wonder…”   
“If you have to wonder… is it even real?”

“Let’s do it! Anything to make you stay...”

 

Optimistic.

  
It takes less than ten minutes for Louis to turn stern.   
“What are you doing? Stop jumping around.”   
“I’m warming up! Like you do with the,” he attempts a clumsy pas de chat.

“That’s not… You’re too cute. I’ll get you a mat.”   
“Are we doing yoga?”   
“Um… We can?”   
“Wait! Can we do that bit in Swan Lake?”   
  
It takes a lengthy exchange of stares for Louis to realise Harry has no plans to further specify.   
“... What bit, Hazza, the whole thing?”   
“You know, with the, thing, doo doo doo, doo, doo-doo, doo-doo-doo, doo-doo-doo...”   
Louis winces, “The  _ Nutcracker _ , Harry.”   
“No they’re swans, they have little feather hats! With the arms, criss-cross…?”   
“Where did you get the Sugar Plum Fairy from then?”   
“That’s not what I was singing!”   
“You definitely were. We do it every year, I’ve got like an entire brain lobe purely dedicated to that score.”

“Sounds the same…”

“Are you criticising Tchaikovsky? In  _ my  _ house?”

 

Harry raises his hands up in silent surrender, and while Louis has half a mind to blow it up into an argument, he finds himself far too fascinated to see them without the usual assortment of rings. Then, remembers them on the side of the bathroom sink. He accepts the proverbial white flag.

  
“But you know what I’m talking about?”   
He considers. “Maybe this would be better than Ondine... They let little kids do this one so  _ maybe _ you’ll be fine…”   
“Mean!”

 

It’s also nothing he should be doing, with opening night so soon… but it’s no harm to humour him when he can always make up the time, right?

 

He’s patient enough, albeit jumpy, in waiting for Louis to warm up (properly, unlike some, who after trying to follow along get bored and eventually revert to aforementioned yoga poses that aren’t practical at all and are generally meant to distract). By the time Louis pulls up a video to remind himself of the steps, Harry is back to being all enthusiasm, so much so that Louis does kind of feel like he’s teaching a small group of easily excitable children and not a grown man with half his monthly rent’s worth in tattoos.

  
He fixes his posture first, tentative to touch him but not wanting to have to ask either.

_ Funny how normal people don’t flinch, innit? _   
“So you wanna kick your leg in, like… In, Haz, not like the can can, like you were doing before...”   
He hits his other calf in the attempt. Then does it too far out so that it’s no longer ‘in’ at all, just vaguely in the same direction. In an attempt to distract him from the double failure, he meets Louis’ eyes with a falsely sincere question.   
“Can you can can?”   
“I can kick you, in a minute.”   
He giggles, which is equally odd and endearing, drawling tease, “So  _ serious _ …”   
  


Louis takes a step back to think. He hasn’t had anything yet, and it’s strenuous even keeping corporeal forms of thought in his head long enough to identify them. All very vague, going off procedure and muscle memory, but that won’t do.    
“Maybe we should start with this… if you go on your toes, demi-pointe...”   
This is apparently a strong sell. “Do I get your shoes?”   
“No, not properly, we’re doing the kiddie version.”   
“I thought you were joking about that!”   
“You’re overestimating your arches. Besides, wouldn’t fit you. So you wanna switch ankles… No you can’t look down...”   
“That’s  _ ridiculous _ ! How can I see?”

The huffiness reminds him of Lottie, somehow, how she decided she wanted to be like her big brother once and he agreed to teach her things from his then-weekly ballet lessons. She quickly deemed it a waste of time. Hard to tell whether it was because she found ballet genuinely boring or that he was being a bossy little shit about his Favourite Thing, but she sulked off into a day long strop all the same. He can’t say he’d like the same reaction from Harry.   
“I’ll tell you when it’s wrong.”   
“When…”

  
Louis considers brushing off the mildly offended tone, mostly just part of joking around, but watching his brows furrowed, bottom lip wedged in between teeth while he simultaneously tries to follow both direction and instruction is somehow profound, and he says a little too late, a little too tender, “Not asking you to be perfect.”

 

A heavily simplified solo version of Dance of the Little Swans later, Louis requests a run-through as an excuse to sit down. It somehow takes Harry longer to prepare for this than it did to learn it (he insists on the aforementioned ‘little feather hat’, which he fashions out of a devastatingly washed out bandana that has, for some reason, migrated with him to Louis’ apartment), though he starts to forget the short series about a third of the way through and vaguely mimes the rest. He finishes the performance with a toothy grin and the intent of jazz hands, before deciding, quite rightly, that they might be inappropriate.   
  
It does kind of break Louis’ heart to have to critique him honestly.   
  
“So… not quite…”   
Harry is quick to protest, “it just doesn’t look right because there’s meant to be four!”, equally quick to change tactics, “You think we could call Niall and Liam over?”

“Absolutely not.”

 

He tilts his head to grin again, holding out his hand like he’s asking some dignified maiden for her hand in marriage and not for a frivolous dance with the worst person Louis can currently think of. The height of dramatics, for which even he might have fallen if he let himself. 

  
“ _ Takes Two _ then!”   
“Sorry?  _ Monsieur Tomlinson  _ is retiring permanently to this couch. You’re on your own.”

It does little to discourage him, tugging Louis to his feet, “Come ooon…” then, switching to a sing-song lilt, “You know you want to fix this...”   
“Mmm…”

 

He does. He really fucking does. It doesn’t even matter that Harry is starting to know him a little too well, a little too close; fixing precedes all self-preservation, and it  _ does  _ irk him to see it done solo. He’s just about to reach for his pointe shoes when Harry hands him the pair, holding one back to examine as Louis does up the ribbons on the first.   
  
“Don’t see how this is fair,  _ Monsieur… _ ”

“You’ll be too tall otherwise and we need to look symmetrical, that’s the whole point.”   
“We are symmetrical. We both have two legs.”   
He shoots him a pained look. Harry hands him the other shoe.   
  
“And just like that, you’re 5’9!”   
  
Despite the comment (which the bastard doesn’t take back, mind), Louis does clean it up a bit, at least to the point where it’s recognisable; it turns out Harry finds copying him much easier than figuring it out from memory, though it does involve glancing down from time to time to get it right when he thinks Louis’ not looking. But it’s not correct, and actually it’s really, really awful, because Harry has very limited limb control so Louis looks stiff by comparison, and he keeps making him laugh, even kicks him by accident at one point, and worst of all keeps losing track of which bit comes next, which way they’re heading. So awful that if Louis was an external judge and this was a serious audition he would consider recommending a different calling altogether.    
  
Yet there’s something else about it, something foolishly beguiling, that ranks it far above the likes of anything he does in rehearsal these days. Wrong in every one of its facets, from technique to sequence to professionalism, and ultimately all the better for it. And though it’s uncomfortable to admit, he can’t remember the last time he’d just had fun dancing like this, not for work or perfectionism or because he was piss drunk and someone dared him to do Odile’s 32 fouett é s and then he made himself sick because he could only get through 28. And maybe it shouldn’t be fun, because it’s his job and not a hobby anymore, but he feels like he’s being welcomed back home with open arms regardless. The idea that he’s been wrong dancing as he has this whole time is admittedly less inviting, rather making him nauseous.

 

Harry swiftly swoops up from an extravagant bow to literally no one, tentative in wrapping his arms around Louis’ waist. He lets him, a little because he needs it and a little because he’s feeling too sick to protest, and maybe the two are related. Embraced by warmth personified, Louis wills himself to stop existing for a minute.  
  
“You’re doing good at this...” Harry mutters into the top of his head with a smile, like he might get in trouble if Louis hears him properly.  
“Ballet? Should hope so if they’re paying me for it...”  
“Us, this. I know you were nervous about it but you’re doing great so far.”  
“No complaints?” Louis tests, masochistically relishing in the idea that Harry has a case file of all the faults and flaws so far, but equally not wanting to hear any of them. He answers promptly.  
  
“Maybe you work too hard…”  
 _Weak. He must have something better._ _  
_“You had that one ready… and coming from you, two jobs and a third kissing Ben Winston’s royal ass…”  
“Ew, no, what a downgrade… I just get worried,” he pulls him in closer somehow, walking them both to the sofa, where he sits down and pulls him onto his lap, “Feel like _I_ can sleep it off, but you’re perpetually some degree of exhausted…”  
He should get off. He _absolutely_ should get off.   
He doesn’t get off. __  
“You trying to get a fourth job worrying about me or what?”  
“I’m serious!”  
  


The bargain ends up being sitting as close to Harry as possible, at the top of his thighs, so that the weight distribution masks at least some of the actual mass. The whole ordeal has got his blood pressure so high he feels like he’s going to pass out, but he focuses on running his fingers through a particularly coiled curl of Harry’s hair, dissecting it into smaller sections, and murmurs without thinking it through enough.   
  
“All good. All good with you.”

  
He pauses to think again. Then, unable to help himself,   
  
“Harry?”   
“Mhmm?”   
He sounds warm and fond and Louis can’t think why he’s looking at him like that, at his most inane, fidgety and tired.   
“The article…”   
“Yes?”

Now it’s depleted ever so slightly, giving rise to that nervous energy Harry tends to exude when Louis is around. He hadn’t planned this far anyway, expected just to prod until something gave way and maybe Harry would say something about the photos first but now he’s having second thoughts. He must be going soft or something, positively maudlin, because again that shred of vulnerability coaxes him away from the brash critique that comes so naturally, particularly in relation to himself, because of course Harry wouldn’t take it as a sign of self-loathing, he’d read it as a reflection on him and his craft and probably do something grandiose and dumb like quit photography altogether and become a farmer in Devon. At that point Louis might actually have to eat to sustain the lifetime of guilt.   
  


“Um… Just, good job. On the photos. Look really good.”   
Harry grins all wide, all dimples, and Louis’ chest drops with the weight of having made the right choice for once.   
“Yeah?”   
“Yeah. Mum’ll have them on the fridge for the next decade.”   
This is the height of all compliments and, incidentally, true. Harry smiles more privately, looking down, then pulls him closer in still, hand almost brushing his hip.    
“Told you you’re doing really great at this. I’m really glad you like them.”   
_ Thin fucking ice, Tomlinson. _   
  
In his defence, he really would like them were they of anyone else, since both Eleanor and Thomas look stunning. He’s hardly one to engage with visual arts, never been, but it doesn’t take a connoisseur to appreciate how good Harry is at his job. Of all the things he can pick out to change about himself in the photo, scrutinize each minuscule flaw that adds up to a greater failure, there’s objectively nothing to fix within the photo itself, nothing that could make it better as far as he can see, short of cropping him out altogether. Were he of Harry’s tendency for grand statements he might insist Ben be an apprentice to him rather than the other way around, but he’s already way above his head in this bizarre arrangement to encourage anything more.

 

So it’s easier to give a measured lie than try to explain what Harry will just refuse to see, and kinder by not risking his feelings when it gets misconstrued. Louis is running out of people as it is.

 

And soon, running out of his apartment.

  
“Shit is that the time?”   
He starts frantically repacking, untying the pointe shoes and retying the vans. If he had gotten up any faster he might’ve crashed into the wall, which, honestly, might have been the better course of action considering he’s just missed class  _ again _ . 

Harry, bless him, is immediately obliging.   
“If you’re late I can drive you?”   
“And risk congestion charges?”

“It’s no problem!”

 

Not that he’s particularly accustomed to thinking straight, but this is ridiculous. Louis raises an eyebrow.

“I’ll drop you off before the cut-off point…” Harry clarifies, handing him the bag as he stands up.

“Romantic. I’ll pass. Missed class anyway...”   
“I can write you a note...”, 

It’s a final attempt to get him to stay, the implication of writing off the whole day ever so open to interpretation but definitely intended, one hand on the straps of Louis’ duffle bag and the other grazing his thigh, which Louis swats away in a manner that he hopes reads as playful and not irrationally tense.   
“Very funny.”   
“Worth a go...” 

 

And as he lets his hand drop to his side Louis stands on his toes to kiss his dumb pouty mouth goodbye, because that’s a thing that he does now, and only remembers the other half of the deal at the door, announcing with genuine glee,   
  
“And I haven’t forgotten about taking photos!”

  
  


***

 

He rushes through warm-up, certain the chatter from all the other dancers in the room must be about him, how he’s losing his touch again, how they shouldn’t have brought him back, why did he even get cast in the first place, _ as the lead no less _ … it’s obvious. Putting that aside, gnawing and nerve-wracking as it is, the thing on his mind is Thomas, who he has to find as soon as possible or he’ll start thinking more clearly and talk himself out of what he needs to do. He was signed in at the desk, a loose scrawl that marked him as barely punctual, but a scan of the room fails to locate him among the usual suspect group, dominating the rehearsal space acoustics with jeering banter a touch too loud. Finishing up, he grabs his bag and continues his search in the other studios. 

 

When he finds him in one of the single rooms upstairs he’s fresh from practice, visibly sweaty, scrolling through something on his phone with an opened water bottle in the other hand. The sound of the door opening piques his interest, and, upon seeing Louis, he looks back down and sneers, taking out one of his in-ear headphones by the wire. 

“Should probably cover that up...” he tuts, tapping his own neck where Louis’ is marked.   
He makes a mental note to throttle Harry when he gets home.  _ Bloody wanker. _   
  


“We need to rehearse the pas de deux again.” he says matter-of-factly, hoping a stiff upper lip is enough to mask the onset of anxious shaking, a weak tell in confrontations he’d be more than willing to physically cut out of himself if it was possible.   
Thomas looks up, annoyed at the suggestion.

“Says who?”   
“I do. We’re shit.”   
“Speak for yourself.”   
“I am.” He can’t believe he’s actually going to say what he says next, to arguable nemesis Thomas Parker no less, but that’s the new epiphany desperation, stronger than what must be the last shred of his pride.   
“I need your help. Cool?”   
He seems taken aback, only for a moment, face instantly hard again where his tone doesn’t match.

“Yeah. Fine.”

 

He’s quick to his feet in a way that leaves Louis a little disoriented, having been convinced he’d have to do much more to even get him to listen. The foreignness of it all, asking for help, admitting defeat in a way, _talking_ , it’s all so not Him. But he doesn’t stoop this low without good reason, and Thomas gets it as soon as the music comes on, shitty recording through a speaker, but good enough for now. Because he really hasn’t thrown himself into Ondine like he should’ve, not consistently by any measure, never believed in the fable of Thomas as Palemon or himself as Ondine. He’s danced her as Eleanor, as Fonteyn, as directions and painstaking practice, but can he, with any conviction, say that he’s ever tried not acting for once, ever believed the ‘Louis Tomlinson as Ondine’ on the promotional posters outside, the cast list, the article?  
  


Already correcting, “No, you need to--”

“I know.”   
He does, lifting Louis up just in time with an immense newfound closeness, like he’s not ready to bash his head against the wall as soon as he lets him down. Another step, another consideration. If he can’t convince himself of Thomas as Palemon, could he do it for Harry?   
  
Thomas’ hand grazes his cheek, turns his head, eerily gentle. He could. 

 

But that’s not right either. The truth is, he isn’t like Ondine, but he’s not like ‘dancing in his apartment with Harry’ either. And just as performing as he has been, as some crude cut-out of what he should be, is only going to lead him down a dead-end, turning it all off for a faux-deep and real exposure of himself may be even worse. Like now. He’s not Ondine, so he’s not filtering for work. No character filter then just becomes a detailed account of all the mistakes he needs to obsessively keep track of, his and Thomas’ now but the whole company’s by the time they get to opening night, the growth of that list doomed to double every time he thinks about it. Every late second adds up, and Louis may no longer be someone else’s Ondine, but he’s no Ondine at all, just a piss poor list of mistakes and a gruelling review to face the next day.   
  


Harry’s Louis. 

 

Thomas skids his hand along Louis’ waist as it’s meant to, for once, and he can’t even think about it.   
He needs to be Harry’s Louis.

 

The sequence gets faster in time with the rushing thought, and Louis is all kinds of elated, keeping up on pure adrenaline alone, because he might finally be getting it truly right.

 

Harry’s Louis is the talk of the ballet, Madame’s pride. He’s beautiful and gorgeous and  _ ethereal _ and he captures the room every step he takes, specifically the boy that shouldn’t really be there at all, doesn’t even have his camera with him that day but is definitely there for work purposes. Akin to regular Louis only be name, and yet, a performance he’s not a stranger to. A performance he can pull off.

  
“Should…” Thomas doesn’t finish the correction, Louis already there. A peeking fragment of annoyance, but the first one so far, a commendable feat.

 

Because he’s Harry’s Louis in bed and in texts and when Harry picks him up and drops him off and cooks him dinner that he eats with a smile and kiss before regular Louis has to bear the brunt of that particular charade. Harry’s Louis is the right amount of shy, right amount of whore, and the things he says are never too harsh, never too blunt in a meaningful way or one that can’t be excused or forgiven. It’s endearing that Harry’s Louis is cold, a quirk that he’s always at work, always redirecting, a simple misfortune that he’s finally chased away one of his only two friends. Harry’s Louis is a neat collection of all the half-truths Louis has constructed for himself in the foolish attempt to hang onto whatever chance he has with Harry, with him, in this thing that shouldn’t have happened at all.

 

He scolds Thomas weakly afterwards, out of breath and giddy, like he’s on the verge of hysterics, “you’re impatient...”

“Wanna get through this, don’t I?”

_ Didn’t feel that way. _ Or maybe it did. He can’t remember. Almost reaches for Thomas’ water bottle after he takes a swig before remembering that it’s not Harry, despite the nonsensical chorus of thought in his head suggesting otherwise.  _ Gonna be a real shame shame shame when he leaves leaves leaves… _

 

Louis chuckles for real then, lucid and losing control, and Thomas looks him up like he’s actually gone mad. He switches the same piece back on and they run it through again. And again. And again, and better and dizzier each time until Thomas needs to take a break, looking darn pleased with himself, and Louis realises he’s shaking up a storm now, letting his legs give out in the center of the room. He must sit like that a while, eyes left out of focus in the general direction of ‘forward’, because the next thing he registers is Thomas’ hand offering him some nondescript packet he must have gotten from the vending machine. Half of it, actually, the silver foil on the underside glinting like a taunt. No way he’d be able to make any of the numbers out right now, but he turns the packet over for them anyhow.

Maybe he deserves an epiphany celebration. At least a half. A quarter.   
  
He struggles breaking that off, then hands the rest back.   
“Thanks.”   
“Sure.”   
  


The break continues silently, without it ever being acknowledged that this is the longest they’ve ever managed to spend in each other’s company, and with little to no hostility at that. It takes Louis far too long to get the peace offering anywhere close to his mouth, and when he does, he sits and chews the first bite until his jaw aches a little and the consistency is unrecognisable. In the time it takes him to finish it, Thomas has time to fuck about on his phone and rehearse his own solos twofold, the second half of which Louis scoots to the side of the room for, mumbling amused critiques that are initially scoffed at, but followed.

 

When he forces himself back up - the peace offering not taken in vain, after all - they run through the pas de deux again, but it’s something else entirely. Calm and comfortable, all fluid movement and cleanly simulated closeness, and when Thomas is meant to look him in the eyes all Louis can see is green green green. They finish a little lopsided, running out of ‘stage’ space, but it doesn’t even matter, Louis going back to trace over the last bit so that they end up in the right place. 

  
“So you finally decided you work here.”

 

The snark is immediately identifiable as belonging to an ever-fashionable Eleanor, stood square in the doorway with folded arms and the faintest hint of surprise, like she’s caught her child sneaking out past curfew again, but not with the company she expected.

Thomas tenses immediately, taking a casual step away from Louis with the full implication that he’d be ready to jump across a county to get away from him if it were possible. And yet, it only highlights the interesting observation that he had been quite relaxed until then.   
“Shut up, Eleanor.”   
“Wasn’t talking to you.” She turns to Louis, “You missed pointe class today.”   
  
They’re equally surprised, but Louis answers blindly through it, “’m makin’ it up...” He has to fight the feeling that he’s just disappointed his mother, but the tension and energy is remarkably similar.   
“Not that I’m looking out for you or anything, but I suggest you get your shit together before you royally crash and burn. This isn’t the time to skip.”

He hears Thomas zipping up his bag, slowly getting up to leave. Louis is quiet answering this time, almost sheepish.   
“I couldn’t do this morning..”   
“Oh right yeah, something came  _ up _ ...” she looks pointedly at the hickey Thomas noted earlier, which is the moment Louis decides he just cannot be fucked anymore.   
“Fuck off, El. I’m staying back to make it up, yeah? What else do you want me to do?”   
She regards him carefully, as if first documenting the outburst before choosing a fitting response. When she does, it’s only natural that it stings something hellish.   
  
“Better.”

 

She dismisses herself with a final glare at Thomas, letting the door swing the whole way out as she makes her way back down the corridor as if nothing had happened, all far too reminiscent of his last conversation with Madame. He hears the three-point clicking so distinctly that he wouldn’t be surprised the memory translated into the speaker, specifically manufactured to taunt him for the rest of his days.

 

Harry has to pick him up later, long after Thomas leaves and the trains aren’t even running anymore. Louis doesn’t say a word on the way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx


	26. Chapter 26

There’s not a price in the world he wouldn’t pay to shut off whatever part of his brain carves out these dreams for him. A restful night, at this point, is a commodity. A luxury. He has long given up fighting against it, finding it only picks right back where he left off, like some horrendous VHS tape he can’t escape from, and the alternative of staying awake all night is highly impractical for all the physical strain he’s under these days. He might as well endure it and hope it’s a quick one.

  
Wherever he is looks and feels like the volume, the resolution, everything’s been turned up, exaggerated into grotesque, writhing detail, all grey-blue and blue-grey that despite its similarities appears as an irritating contrast unless you squint. He feels his skin burn, beginning as a thrum and then growing to a scalding, sharp pain, but it’s duller than it should be, reaching only his awareness of it, so that he acknowledges it happening but does little to stop it or even panic. Instead, he finds himself inclined to dip his hand into the riverbank.   
  
The buzz grows to a halt, but the water doesn’t feel like anything. No coolness or motion, just a still nothing where no sensation exists.    
  
He can’t help but jump when he feels fingers lace with his from the other side.

  
He’s pulled in - or, rather, out - emerging from the same body of water he first approached into surroundings that are dimmed down into a blurry monotone, like some watery impressionist haze of green and yellow and red and brown. The hand is painted the same way around his, as is the arm and the abdomen and the rest of the body, and his eyes adjust until he can make out the vague contours of another man smiling down at him.   
  
He knows this bit.   
  
The steps come naturally, as only they should at this stage of rehearsals, and together they dance an exemplary pas de deux the whole way round around what is admittedly a foolish microcosm, every set he’s ever been on subconsciously strung together into an endless reel of pretty background, homely countryside, deep woods, wildflower fields.

  
He doesn’t hear his bones cracking, or at least ignores them for as long as possible, until the wide-eyed man can’t hold him up anymore and he’s falling alone, the depth and the weight all crawling back with a vengeance for ever daring to lounge comfortably under the blanket of numbness.   
  


 

***   
  
The last thing he expects when starting awake is a reactionary series of movements to his right, jumping in real life too as he’s enveloped in warm arms and softly shushed against the crown of his head, only remembering then how dramatic these wake-ups are. He musters any and all will he has to stifle the rasped, shallow breathing, bone-dry and searing so much that he wants to cry out. He controls himself, instead stifling back hot tears too. 

  
“Shh, little bird.” Harry murmurs, voice sleep-deep and lower, slower than usual, notes vibrating so much more loudly in the comforting tightness of the embrace, “What’s happened?”   
“Bad d--” he recoils immediately, the shattered way it sounds identical to the way it feels, as if spoken through shards of glass.   
“God you sound awful… I’ll get you something for your throat.”   
He feels like he’s falling again, and the surge of panic makes him forget himself, “Don’t!”   
“Shh…”   
Desperate, he tries quieter, like his body won’t notice, “Stay…”   
“Just be a minute okay? Get you something to write on...”

 

It feels like a decade that he’s gone, the shuffling in the kitchen and opening and closing cabinets a taunting percussive bassline to Louis losing his breath again, wanting nothing more than to keel over and sob until he drowns. He squeezes his eyes shut when he thinks for a moment the duvet is crawling too, kicking it aside as he wraps his own arms around his knees, soon joined by the same set from before. When he opens his eyes again the grip loosens, and one hand offers him a half-opened blister pack of cough lozenges, the other holding a notepad and a pen. He takes the former, making a futile note of  _ 10 _ , but ignores the notepad, instead turning to face Harry in a stubborn attempt to regain some kind of efficacy and control after being publically reduced to a whimpering mess.  _ Pathetic. _   
  
“Why… you’re here… Meant to…”  _ fuck, _ “studio…”   
Ever so eloquent. Harry seems to gather what he means, considering he was the one who stressed how much Ben needed him back at work.    
“You texted me, don’t you remember? You... were really ill...”   
  


There’s no need to take his word for it. For all of Harry’s great efforts at cleaning up - apparent by the general overpowering aroma of ‘sea breeze’ scented wet wipes in the apartment and one of his own body washes on his skin - he can still smell sick all over his hands, traces of burning sweet and the bitter traces of bile that came later. It makes him remember then, sticking down whatever will irritate enough and then retching, heaving, feeling all sorts of torn up against the polished plastic of a spare toothbrush, or whatever it may be, since he can’t afford getting knuckle sores before the last round of promotional photos with them filming, no less. Not with everyone’s eyes on him like that. 

 

He can’t bear to ponder at which point Harry had found him, so it’s with utter shame and stomach-pit embarrassment that he croaks out a broken,   
“Shouldn’t have…” followed by an already wincing, “‘M sorry…”

 

“No, no, no… Shh… Not your fault, baby, don’t worry about it...”   
“Work…”   
“Write, okay? And don’t worry about that, I’ll do it at home. Need to take care of my prima ballerina, don’t I?”   
  
That stings like an insult, there. It’s meant as a joke and he’s lightening the mood and Louis should  _ let him _ , because he had to leave work to clean up his shitty boyfriend’s vomit off god knows what, since the aforementioned shitty boyfriend usually loses all ability to aim around the third cycle, but he grits his teeth so hard he feels his whole jaw shift out of place.   
  
_ It’s your fault. All of this is your fault. _   
  
“Shouldn’t… have to.”   
Harry’s too concerned to pick up on the harsh way he says it, or maybe everything just sounds harsh like this.   
“You’re really set on talking, huh?”   
“‘M handwriting’s shit.”   
He quirks an eyebrow as if to challenge him, and offers Louis the notebook and pen again.   
“I’ll be the judge of that.”   
He takes it, because that’s what he’s supposed to do, pointedly scribbling,   
  


**_Harry is a wanker_ **

 

before passing it back with a matter-of-fact expression. Harry jokingly regards it as if it were a masterpiece in an art gallery, holding it out as far as his arm can reach and then bringing it up to his nose to squint at the imaginary details. When he sees Louis watching him as if he’d gone mad he justifies himself with the same dramatism.

“That’s a million pounds right there. Personalised autograph from the top dancer of our generation, are you kidding me? Just paid off my future children's tuition fees...”   
  
Louis rolls his eyes to cover an involuntary sniffle, adding,

 

**_who is full of shit_ **

**_signed, Louis Tomlinson xx)_ **

 

at which Harry grins so ridiculously brightly Louis has to look back to check that he hadn’t written him a heartfelt sonnet by mistake.

 

In that moment, he really wants to die. Because what was he thinking doing any of this, stringing this boy along to play up some deluded fantasy in his fucked up head? This wasn’t meant to happen. None of this was meant to happen. If he ever needed a sign that he had let this go too far, let Harry get too close, this must be the last blazing red alarm bell. He’s ignored the first three canaries in the mine so steadfastly that he might as well have killed them himself. Except, he’s so frantically looking for any reason, any rationale behind staying put and defying everything he’s ever done up to this point that in that moment, with the heaviest, guiltiest conscience, he knows, and probably has known under layers and layers of denial and blissful ignorance...   
  
He’s not going to run. He couldn’t bring himself to it.   
  
Because for all these circular ponderings that only ever seem to reaffirm the same tired observations, his growing dependency on Harry being here long-term grows clearer, and consequently more difficult to ignore, by the hour.    
  
He doesn’t deserve him. Fact. He hasn’t deserved a minute of his time since he drove him home after that stupid night out and he doesn’t deserve to have him skip work to come take care of him after his own undoing.

 

It’s past the point of harmless hoping. Fact. This is actively keeping him here. This is thought out, and intentional, and Harry, who’s always been so inexplicably drawn to him, kind and accommodating and far too much than what someone like him should ever get to have from another person, is nothing short of a victim here. Fact.

  
So he shouldn’t let him put his arms around him again, or smile at some mumbled funny story about an awkward phone call with one of Ben’s clients, shouldn’t inch closer to him or trace his finger over the lines of his favourite tattoo thinking what it must be like to be Harry Styles, who doesn’t have to do all of the things Louis does and yet is still doing so much better. Who could afford to be naive and callow and unquestioning, unchallenging, up until now.    
  
He shouldn’t have the privilege of ruining him like that.

 

But he does, naturally, and only feels worse coddled up to heavy, heady Harry, who despite his clear objective of staying awake for as long as it takes for Louis to get a fucking grip starts to doze off a little, growing slacker by the second.    
  
Louis recalls the catalogue of foods he’s seen him eat, unabashed, and hopes he somehow crushes him. Instead, he stirs awake again, cocking his head and gazing with sleepy, half-lidded eyes, clearly asking for any kind of sign that he might be allowed to rest from his made-up nursing duty. He runs his thumb over Louis’ cheek, and Louis tries not to throw up.   
  


“You feel any better?”

 

He isn’t. It’s been a long time since he’s taken it this far and, between the bursts of panic and breathlessness his heart’s only now attempting to settle from that flighty, fluttering staccato he’s grown so accustomed to, not to mention knowingly fucking up Harry’s life by allowing, and continuing to allow any of this to happen. Nonetheless, he gives him a meek smile, permission.   
  


“Mhmm.”

 

He falls asleep before he can say goodnight, which is really for the best. In doing so he doesn’t hear Louis spit out what’s left of the lozenge into a tissue, or his quietly padding to the bathroom to double check that he’s absolutely clear, or the muffled sobs that escape in between each idle retch.

 

Harry hears only apologetic kisses in the morning, eagerly accepting them without knowing quite what they’re for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now seems as good a time as any to say that I will be breaking down corps into a series as the story moves along because,  
> 1\. i want to go back and edit the earlier chapters as soon as possible  
> 2\. large chapter numbers stress me out (can you imagine a chapter 86 ? unsightly)  
> 3\. story-telling ?? it makes sense you'll see
> 
> this is all part one, and the next 3-4 chapters will also be part one, but after that I will have a period to edit before starting back again with part two aHHHHHHHHH
> 
> hope that makes sense ? and also thank you for reading this far lmao 
> 
> xx


	27. Chapter 27

He tries to stay still while Sarah helps him into the costume, carefully dodging any form of accidental brushes that might raise some unnecessary red flags and hoping it just comes across as jittery excitement. When it’s on, she takes his hand to spin him around, each layer of airy fabric making waves with the movement, translucent blue not at all warmed by the colour of his skin.  
  
“Lovely!” she declares, admiring her own handiwork, “The photos will look great.”  
“I’m sure.”  


And, he is, for once, despite everything else going on, because the work has paid off and Madame nods affirmingly when she sees him, and he doesn’t have to will himself to shrink everytime Thomas does a lift and it’s _Harry_ taking the photos, for god’s sake, of course they’re going to look great. It doesn’t matter that he’s still leftover raspy from refusing to do any favours to his throat - he can only return to the sustaining plan from the losing once the show debuts - or that he can barely make it up the stairs to his apartment at the end of a long day...  
Everything, for the most part, is going so bloody great. Too bloody great.  
  
When he’s dancing he catches glimpses of him on every turn, all long legs and white shirt and, though most of his face obstructed by the camera, Louis knows exactly the face he’s making, because he’s caught it before, the furrowed brow and the teeth-drawn lip, the nose twitch when something’s not quite right; all a prettier picture than the one he’s taking.  
  
Always taking them now, or maybe Louis is only noticing it now. Of the apartment, of street art, of signs. Always stops them on the way home to get a shot of something no one else has noticed, always something that requires him to squat ridiculously to get the right angle or lighting while mumbling something about iPhone camera quality, always apologises for making him wait. But Louis never complains, even though he’s freezing, says that it’s funny watching him struggle when really, every time he does he can’t help but think how much more it’s going to hurt later.  
  
“Again!”  
  
He shouldn’t look in the lens, but he can’t help it. Every time he’s supposed to look at the audience that’s where he lands, dead-set and challenging though he’s light to touch. Green at the end of a tunnel. Isn’t that what Ondine’s all about?

 

“Tomlinson.” Thomas mutters when they’re face to face, or should be, because Louis takes half a beat too long to turn around.  
  
The intersection of land and sea, something. Starcrossed, something. Dance and art and beauty and youth and isn’t that what all of _life_ is about? He doesn’t have to look so far anymore, to see him, feel his hands on him, and he smiles until the last step like he’s not signing it all away.  
  
“Louis,” when he’s too early. A firm hand. He looks up at him as if he were all that’s worth living for and maybe, while he’s _Harry_ , he is.  
  
*  
  
“Timing,” is what Madame tells them, scanning her clipboard for further notes, “Good work on chemistry, much better lifts. We’ll have the corps out now, so take a break.”

  
But Harry doesn’t run up to the stage to meet him like he’d do for the tech runs before, instead taking a minute to stand at full height, frowning at the photos on his camera. Everything in Louis’ chest stills and he stands, rooted to the spot, as if everything is simultaneously frozen and firing off at once. It takes Thomas’ hand, square on his shoulder, for him to realise he’s trembling.  
  
“‘Take a break’, usually means _off_ the stage, mate.”

  
Whatever lightness there was is gone as he drags his feet like boulders down the steps and down towards Harry almost begrudgingly, because maybe he isn’t wanted close to him at all and maybe he shouldn’t have thought any of that bollocks about life and, whatever, something, getting far too ahead of himself, thinking he could be anything better doing any of this, and, isn’t it ironic that all this dragging and letting this happen has backfired right into his _face, because Harry could leave now, could leave everything behind because he doesn’t need to be here anymore, doesn’t have to put up with your incessant childish bullshit like he has done for the past--_  
  
Harry notices him approaching and grins, making up the remaining distance in one swift step.  
  
_He forgot._ That’s okay. All okay. Louis smiles back, albeit weakly, gives him his hand to hold when prompted.  


“You feeling better?”  
He _was._ “Much.”  
“I have some notes, um…” The brows knot together as he glances down, slipping his hand away to move through the photos, and Louis’ mind races to list all the forms of penance he’s prepared to undertake. “Not that I’d advise this in any other context but if you look at Thomas more here… and generally…”  
“‘M sorry--”  
“No it’s fine there’s plenty to work with but, um, at the end, that was really good. Really real. More of… that, performance-wise. Not that I’d know but… that’s what I think.”  


“Can I show you something?” he says quickly, a touch too soft, a real touch grazing up Harry’s arm. He lets him, but looks a little confused.  
“Show me what?”  
Soft works sometimes, so Louis keeps it up.  
“New dressing room.”  
“You have a--” Harry’s eyes light up, but then he clears it away, professional. Mends his eyebrows again to the sound of a gruff, “might need me...”, but more as a formality than a genuine concern. Or, at least, not genuine enough to have trouble easing away.  
“You can… take photos later. You get a break too, surely...”  
  
They don’t really know but they don’t ask either, and by the time Louis leads them there he finds himself shaking even more as he shuts the door, knocks a surprised breath out of Harry’s chest as he’s observing the vanity.  
  
  
It’s the longest break Louis’ ever taken, but at least Harry definitely wants him close then.  
  
  
***  


 

Louis is annoyed.

 

It started with Niall, who made and then spammed a group chat (that appeared to contain anyone he had ever existed within the same general vicinity of) with photos of him successfully turning in his assignment and then getting plastered with his coursemates in the Leicester Square Wetherspoon. The messages that followed ranged from the likes of ‘siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick’ to ‘Tom the TA can suck ma fckin cock’ (his coursemates were, indeed, the most responsive), to a number of varyingly enthusiastic ‘congrats!’, all of which Niall replied to wordlessly with the thumbs up emoji. Louis had muted it relatively quickly, even before rehearsals were underway, and it wouldn’t have been a problem at all if he hadn’t had the misfortune of noticing the one named contact among the onslaught of nameless +44 numbers.  
  
**well done mate. take it easy next time. z**

 

By the time he hears the long awaited knock on his dressing room door he’s bitten through his lip and snapped at least two elastics, tossing aside the pair of pointe shoes he’s been trying to sew them into for the past ten minutes in the race to let him in.  
  
“What took you so long?” is the first thing he mutters against Harry’s neck, hands everywhere on him, grabbing and pulling, “Haven’t seen you in _forever...”_

 

Objectively, it’s been a couple days. The final round of promotional material can now be seen on several forms of public transport, which he knows because Niall had also taken it upon himself to document them meticulously with very tired looking selfies at very odd hours of the night, this being before the aforementioned celebrations and the message that brought Harry over here in the first place. At this point old friends and distant family members have started to catch wind, so much so that he keeps a draft response in his notes (“haha that’s so funny ! thanks :)”) to minimise the strain of having to come up with a new and socially acceptable response every time.  
  
All of this means, however, that Harry’s weird internship portfolio-building Louis-watching _whatever_ time at the Royal Ballet has come to an end. He no longer has a reason to be here, and Louis no longer has to see him 24/7, at work and at home. Which, he actually finds himself a little bitter about. He can’t remember why it was such a nuisance to spend so much time with him now that they’re… not.

“I’m sorry, I had to finalise some shots for this fashion feature and these landscapes Ben wanted all at the same time, and now I’m setting up Ben’s stay in New York but the hotel people aren’t taking me seriously and I was _trying_ to be nice to this snooty receptionist and Ben just told me off for taking so long and it’s… ughh...”

“Ben… can go fuck himself…”

Harry means to give a look of disapproval, but the side of his mouth quirks up a little. That’s a tell, Louis has found. He kisses the tell too.  
“Lou…”

“‘Mean it. You’re not... his fucking... secretary...”

  
He pulls away, so Louis backs off, bites the inside of his cheek to suppress the comment he’d definitely regret Harry hearing.  
“I might be able to go with him! Spend a week there, get a chance to talk to some really big people…”

The vomit/dream incident flashes in the back of his mind with a hearty dose of panic. He’s gotten embarrassingly attached to having Harry sleep in the same bed since then, having something to wrap his arms around, having someone there when he’s getting the worst of an overactive imagination… Not that he’d dream of waking him up for something as stupid as that, but the knowledge that he could, theoretically, that he’s there, it’s comforting. Got pretty attached to it. The comfort. Got pretty attached to _him_ .  
“A _week_?”

“It’ll be nothing, you won’t even notice I was gone!”

 

He kisses him again, feverishly, in lieu of a correction. Harry’s starting to get a little too tentative for Louis’ comforts, though, redirecting attention to all the _responsible_ questions that Louis is making great efforts to avoid.  


“Don’t you have rehearsals in a bit?”

“Then a tech run through. Then orchestra. Ondine’s a whole production now...”

“And you have time for this? Didn’t you get in trouble last time?”

“I can be late. Or not show up at all. Doesn’t matter.”

This time Harry pushes him off, gentle but firm, a hand to his chest that then moves his hair off his face, as if he’s going to read some illustrious secret in his eyes.  
  
“Okay, no. What’s up?”

“What, whats up? Nothing’s up, why does something have to be up?”

“Because you’re encouraging some wild escapades at work and I don’t know what’s gotten into you?”  
  
This is alarm bell territory. It all depends on what qualifies as something that’s just now ‘gotten into’ him, instead of something that’s always been there that Harry’s just now noticed.  
  
Louis responds playful, an attempt at warding off what could be the start of a serious conversation that would pose a risk in itself.

“So you’re saying I’m not the type for wild escapades at work? That’s extremely presumptuous considering that I suggest it at least twice a week.”

“Yeah, but you’re joking then. In this current moment it feels like you’re acting out about something...”  
  
The wording hits too close to home. He doesn’t hold his tongue here, taking a step out of reach.

“Do you genuinely see me as a four year old? Like, a literal child?”

“Of course not!” Harry backtracks, rejoining him with arms around his waist, “I just get the sense that you’re not big on voicing what’s going on in your head when you need to...”  
  
Strike a balance. They need to get back on topic, out of this dubious subject ground where there’s too much up for questioning. Maybe the playful approach will work this time.

“Right now its ‘can I make a head joke’. See? Voiced.”

Harry sighs, but the tell is back, because of course he’d love the joke too. Good.  
  
“I’m just saying… sneaking around dressing rooms having quickies… isn’t that what teenagers do?”  
“Sure. Because it’s fun…”  
“I just think… this is serious.”  
He does not like this.  
“And?”  
“And… this feels like it’s not… serious...”  
He _really_ does not like this.  
“Does it have to be?”

Harry takes a deep breath, but doesn’t seem to detect any dread in Louis’ tone. After an anxiety-inducing pause that feels like it lasts a full ten minutes, he asks, in classic sheepish manner,  
  
“Can I tell you something?”  
  
_No. Absolutely not._ _Don’t say anything now or ever that makes this any more serious than it already is. Than it’s gearing up to become. Don’t ever speak if that’s what’s going to get it there._ _No._  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“I don’t really…” he laughs awkwardly, more out of embarrassment than humour, “this is like my first... reaaaal thing.”

 

Jesus _fucking_ Christ.

  
Louis turn, slipping out of his arms, the only way to limit Harry’s view of what must be an expression of pure horror on his face. Every inch of thought, about ruining him, about dragging him along, amplified. Everything reframed within the context that Louis has been setting expectations of what it should be like, how good is good and how bad is bad, what’s _normal_ . He never deserved this, any of this _bullshit_ , but he certainly doesn’t deserve having _Louis_ as the norm.  


“See, that’s why I didn’t tell you! It’s weird.”  
He snaps back around, the thought of making Harry blame himself for any part of this actually making his blood boil.  
“That’s not… it’s not weird, it’s fine.” He makes to cup his face, root the other hand in his hair where it’s become _the norm_ to, but he stops himself. _You’ve done enough. Fucked up enough._ “Don’t worry about that. I’m… surprised.”  
“Why?” he looks genuinely puzzled, and Louis wants to scream.  
“You’re…” he struggles to hang onto a word that fits, something _enough_ but not too revealing, thinks _kind_ , _sweet,_ _warm_ , _beautiful_ , but it’s all too grating against earlier intentions and now this, didn’t want this, the new roots of guilt and responsibility he knows he could never fulfill, never be worth...

 

“You’re really into relationship stuff,” he gives up lamely, heart burning all the way up his throat, “So if you wanted someone I figured you’d… you’d have them.”  
“As if, you make me sound like some casanova!” Harry laughs, fading out when Louis doesn’t join him, “The relationship thing, that’s just from watching _The Notebook_ too many times. Love me a love story...”  
“You deserve better than me for your first real thing.”  
A beat. Harry cocks his head with a grin, like Louis’ just told a bad joke.  
“Now you’re just being silly.”  
“No, see, if you thought about it properly--” _Shut the fuck up shut the fuck up shut the fuck up._  
“I think about you a lot, I think I would’ve noticed if you were a dickhead!”  
  
Louis doesn’t speak. Half because he doesn’t want to and half because he can’t. Just stands with his mouth rightly shut, eyes boring into the ground as Harry moves to lean against the vanity and breaks the silence slowly, voice low and deep and stupidly comforting, testing the waters.  
  
“I told you I was an art kid. That’s kind of, that was kind of it. I was friends with everyone but it wasn’t, not in like a popular way. They just kind of knew me as nice weird harry with the curls… that last bit because it looked a bit like a dense helmet of hair… spent most of my school life looking like a gangly poodle, actually, so that might’ve been it, I mean, you’ve seen my A level self-portraits...”  
  
He doesn’t laugh where he’s meant to. Harry continues with a more focused recollection.  
  
“Anyway, my friends started getting crushes and it started to be like, a ‘big thing’ but I was sort of late to the party and when I caught up it was like, super intense and long and even if nothing ever happened it would take me like a year to mourn each one because I would get so hung up on, like, the _idea_ of being with them. That _is_ weird.”  
  
Louis shakes his head, but the objection doesn’t come out. Harry takes the opportunity to reangle, not ‘throw’ the ball into his side of the court so much as hand it to him wrapped and watch for his reaction with eerie intensity.  


“Bet you made everyone’s head turn.”  
He laughs dryly, and Harry grins at the way back in, thinking he’s got his foot in the door.  
  
“Yeah, ‘cause I was fucking annoying...”  
“Oh please...”  
“Had a bit of an issue with rejection, and a tendency to be very obvious every time it happened. Which, being the common fate for young boy love in the harsh state school environment, was a lot, ‘specially once your classmates learned all the lovely words for it that they could say and all their friends’ would make it very obvious as well… Some people never get past that stage of their life but who am I to judge…”  
“I don’t believe it. Can’t imagine anyone not falling in-- for you...”  
“I mean, I sucked a lot of dick behind a lot of bike sheds, so they liked me long enough for that. But um, anything longer… or god forbid, public, than that… was out of the question.”  
“Sorry, you what?”  
  
These stories are a reserved piece of history, a period he looks back on rather matter-of-factly, in the same fashion that it all went down. He’s curious why it slips off his tongue so easily though, when he felt nothing short of choked up minutes prior, but the nervous tremors must feed some part of him, relishing in the potential for sharing shame and disgust that could be the ticket for Harry to come to his senses and realise he’s in poor company.  


He shrugs. “I liked making people happy. Burned some time. Not a lot, but, y’know. Could give you a demonstration if you like...”  
Harry misses the bait completely, like the sleaze doesn’t correlate with who he’s talking to.  
“But if they rejected you…”  
“Well, yeah, for show. Then we’d do like, a Romeo & Juliet style ‘meet me outside the science block’ bollocks, or whatever, and get at it. Painless. Would forget about even liking them by the next day and move on to greener pastures. Blew a lot of straight guys too but then, like, how straight can you be, like, okay ‘the girls won’t do it’ but? You know what I mean?”

“Fucking hell…”  
  
He can’t stop talking now, he finds, new anecdotes coming back to him in droves as comical flashbacks to lay on thick for his audience’s shock and outrage.  
“Fun times. Occasionally even lucrative, like if they brought me stuff for it. There was also a running joke that I scored a lot on the football team but then it stopped being funny when I got on the team for a bit and did actually score… like in the game, not… that too, but…”  
“Got it, yeah.”  
Mean as it is, he can’t help but smirk at the fact that Harry, though maybe not disgusted, does look substantially queasy alongside the dismissive tone. A job well done, having only scratched the surface of all the things Louis could bring up as cause for Harry to leave.  
“So.” He concludes, taking a seat in front of his vanity and Harry, watching to see if he scoot away in polite revulsion. “That’s me. Maybe you’re weird for your things but, um… At least more selective.”

  
“So when this is over I’ll be another forgotten dick behind a bike shed…” Harry says finally, dressed in a forced kind of humour that’s supposed to divert Louis from the fact that he’s deep in qualms about the sanctity of them.  
  
_Them._  
  
He rolls his eyes before he can think it through, mocking the “When…” in his impression of Harry’s voice, before he meets his and green green green is asking for anything else to believe right now even though if he let it slide, if he let it fester, then Harry would grow fields of silent, inoffensive doubt, evict himself, ruin himself, all under the tempting illusion that Louis isn’t, and never was, on the same stupid all-gone page they’re dancing on.  
  
Except that’s all too convenient, or too easy, or Louis just can’t fucking accept the thought that a white lie, a _necessary_ lie, might take something away from Harry for a minute, even if that’s what’s ruining him in the first place.  
“You won’t. You’re… fuck’s sake...”  
_You fucking had him. You could’ve let him go. Fucking idiot._  
  
It’s not what Harry was looking for either, but he calms somewhat.  
“Thanks. Mum always said that was my best trait.”  
“When did you start with these quips? what happened to the stupid psychoanalytic bullshit and the rambling? All confident sarcastic twat now...”  
He grins brightly, all dimples, and Louis’ chest eases a little.  
“You’re a terrible influence… but they’re all still there. Rambling is with new people, counteracts the um, slow speech… and you.”  
“Counteracts me? Not very well, then.”  
“No, I mean… rambled with you a lot more than normal. You scared me a lot until maybe like... last week.”  
  
Louis scoffs then, spins a full circle in the chair for full effect of, “Shut _up_ , you’re so full of shit sometimes...”  
“You’re very intimidating! I had the advantage of meeting you when you were just cute and bubbly but I swear, when I met you sober I almost shit myself...”

He stops with a grimace. “‘Cute and bubbly’? Get out.”

“Have you seen yourself drunk? Like a kitten to a tiger...”  
“So you _did_ know I was a dickhead!” he claps his hands together, sitting upright against his back’s protests, “Better get out while you can.”  
“You’re not though!” he argues, of course, but faltering in the lighthearted tone the conversation had been heading, “You’re… reserved, and you’re driven, and sometimes that reads as you being cold but you’re not even that, really, I think you just don’t have the time to try for people that won’t try in return.”  
  
It sounds a lot like hopeful thinking that this really is the case, and that Harry doesn’t have to entertain the idea that Louis is anything less than good for him and misunderstood by everyone else. He smiles a tight smile and hopes there might still be some turnaround for all of this.  
“You’re right. The psychoanalytic bullshit is alive and well…”  
  
There’s a pause as Louis spins in the chair, Harry smiling down into his hands. Against better judgement though, he prods him with,

“I can’t believe no one liked you back. You must’ve had a Thing with _someone_ .”  
and Louis stills for good.

  
“Yikes, let’s… let’s not.”

“It’s fine if you have…” Harry is prompt to assure, following with so many quotation marks that there’s no point putting his hands down, “I had a thing and it wasn’t _really_ real but it was a _thing_ , so I guess I should tell you. With this, um, guy I met in a bar… I thought that’s how it worked... It was meant to be a short fling but then I kind of fell for him and made up this entire scenario where we ended up together with like, seven kids and a house in the countryside. And then when we met up again he called me Henry.”  
He can’t imagine someone forgetting Harry’s name.  
“Sounds like a prick.”  
“Nah. Just on different wavelengths.”

  
If he could just hear himself…  
  
“So… if it’s like, embarrassing. I don’t know. You don’t have to tell me, but…”  
  
But he _did_ want a turnaround.  
  
He takes a deep breath and another tight smile, this one far too strained to make enough light of it; this story would hurt to tell, however vaguely he goes about it. He feels himself starting to choke up again.  
“It’s cool just… sucked a lot of dick in ballet classes too. One in particular.”

Harry frowns, always one to clarify, “How old were you?”

“16, at that point… til like… 18. Um. Yeah.”

“Was it, like, a ‘thing’?” he does the quotation marks again.

“Kind of. Yeah.”

“Guessing it didn’t…”

“It did not.”

“Okay. _He_ sounds like a prick.”

  
Louis shrugs, but it doesn’t make his skin feel any more his.  
“He was okay. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Did you have to dance with him much?”

“He was one of the instructors.”  
  
There’s a pause where Louis thinks he might hear another ‘hot for teacher’ joke, but if he was about to then Harry decides against it. Instead, he places his hand over Louis’ like some kind of misfitting protective shell.

“Could find him and beat him up always…”

“Pegged you more as a lover than a fighter.”

“And correctly so… but for the sake of romantic gestures…”  
He trails off with half a grin, but he’s reading Louis’ responses closely, trying to gage what he’s thinking and what he’s not letting on.  
  
But Louis’ no stranger to this game.  


“Do you have your camera with you?”

 

It does the trick of catching him off guard, and the top of his body twists in search of his long abandoned rucksack, taking just enough time undoing the leather straps for Louis to tip his head back so as to regain some composure. _Fucking breathe._  
  
“Are we making a sex tape?”  
“Enough with these quips, people won’t be able to tell us apart. You owe me a go at your photography thing though.”  
  
He clutches it to his chest with a pained expression, then decides cooperation is the better bet. Soon the roles are reversed though, as Harry insists on explaining what every single button and menu function does and what settings he would use for what hypothetical shooting situation when Louis had just asked him about the on/off, which, naturally, he forgets to point him to altogether.  
  
“Did I break it already or are you fucking with me about controls?”  
“Why, what’s happening?”  
“It’s just showing up as a black screen!”  
  
Harry stifles a laugh with his fist, pointing at the camera with his other hand as Louis stares at him with a residual glare from his ‘turn it off then on again’ strategy proving unsuccessful.  
“What’s funny?”

“You might… might want to take the lens cap off…”  
“Oh.” He does so, then scoffs when the screen comes up clear, “Think you’re so fucking clever...”  
  
It takes a frankly unreasonable amount of strength to hold the camera up, so Louis takes a good minute making sure he’s all level. In that time Harry’s downgraded to light giggling, only realising that the camera is pointed at him when the shutter goes off.  
“Oh no, not of me, Lou! No one was even meant to see me today I got dressed for espionage, not a photoshoot...”  
He lowers the camera so that Harry can feel the full force of his deadpan expression.  
“Using your own staff keycard that you forgot to return to security is not espionage.”  
“It so is!”  
“So you didn’t sign in?”  
Harry presses his lips into a thin line, eyes darted off to the side. Louis takes another picture.  
  
“Case closed. I’m the artist now, so, do your muse thing.”  
He raises both eyebrows, “My what, sorry?” Another shutter sound. “Stooop, that one was bad!”  
“All your self portraits are from when you were like, 12, so…”  
“17…”  
“In any case, they need an update. You can take black and white pictures of my sink any day of the week, but youth is fleeting.”  
“Not a self-portrait if you take it though, is it?”  
  
Harry might be right. He tips the camera back towards himself and presses down on the same button, the same still expression quick to scowl when all that comes of it is the lens shifting backwards and forwards.  
“‘S not focus--” the shutter sounds, “There we go. Now it’s a series. You’re welcome.”  
“Oh yeah, brilliant. Your nostril’s gonna make National Geographic.”  
“What did I say about quips? Got a mouth and a half on you these days…”  
  
A couple more photos of Harry just making faces, still leaning against the vanity, then Louis needs to hand the camera back to rotate his hands in their respective sockets. He takes it back. Snaps a couple more.  
  
“I’m bored, do something else...” he complains not even a minute later. Clearly amused, Harry cocks his head at him again.  
“Like what, love?”  
“Do some-- Oh, I don’t know, shouldn’t you know?”  
“I’m just the muse, apparently. You’re supposed to give direction.”  
“Oh right. Fine, yeah. Um. Do one like, dramatic music video, looking off into the distance.”  


He does as he’s told, and Louis has to do that stupid lean that Harry always does to get the right angle. Takes a couple like that, with Harry offering him varying degrees of drama until he looks into the lens with full theatrical force, classic troubled male lead squint and pout.

 

“You do that too well…” Louis notes, using all the will he has to ignore the stark resemblance to one of Zayn’s go-to selfie expressions. Harry flicks his hair over his shoulder with a grin.  
“It’s a talent.”

 

But they keep to safe topics from then, quickly having Harry replicate each of Louis’, Eleanor’s and Thomas’ facial expressions from the article headshots, Harry taking great joy in making all the Thomas ones look as exaggerated and machiavellian as possible. Then they migrate to the centre of the dressing room, where Harry mimics the same poses from the article, the promotional posters and finally the show, hellbent on successfully doing - and getting a shot of - a grand jete developpe (which he also refuses to believe is not safe to attempt in a relatively small dressing room). At that point it becomes a game of Louis informing him that he’s done and then taking more pictures each time he relaxes.

  
“Unethical!”  
“Okay fine, I’m done for real now, this is way too fucking heavy. I don’t understand how you haul it around everywhere...” he grumbles, handing it back with a final wince as it leaves his hands.  
“Don’t you lift people? Like, in other performances?”  
“Oh please, they’re lighter than this, and I have weak wrists anyway. All those bikeshed dicks…”  
Harry groans. “I honestly regret you ever telling me that…”  
“Ha, you jealous?”  
“Yes.”  
  
Oh. He puts his arm around him, smooth, the other one already flipping through the gallery.  
“We’ve still got time for initial plans…” Louis proposes, tugging Harry closer by the cross around his neck.  
“Let me at least go through these first. Be all yours in a minute.”

 

That’s concerning.

 

“This one’s good… except you cut off my head there… and there… Actually, in most of them...”  
Louis wraps Harry’s arm around him tighter. “That’s an artistic choice.”  
“Trademark, yeah?”  
“Have to differentiate yourself in the market, Harold. It’s a dog eat dog world out there.”  
“I’ll keep that in mind… But I love ‘em. Definitely a worthy update.”  
He plants a kiss on the crown of Louis’ head.  
“What would you mark it as, y’think? If you were an examiner?”  
“...Like... a C…”  
Louis gasps, clearly affronted, and pushes Harry away with another spin in the chair and a high and breathy,  
“ _Unbelievable!_ ”  
before Harry stops the chair to kiss him for real. It seems to be enough of an apology.  
  
“Am I allowed to take photos of _you_ now?” he asks, pulling Louis up to his feet in front of him, so that he stands in between his thighs.  
“Um… Literally was your job until like, a week ago...”  
“Unofficially now. Like, not for work, just… I don’t know… social media, or something. Phone background, that kind of thing.”  
“Oh.” Louis raises an eyebrow at the example, fidgeting with the hem of Harry’s shirt between his fingers. “Yeah, I guess? ‘S long as I have full deleting rights.”  
“Naturally.”  
The side of his mouth twitches, and he meets Harry’s eyes with full teasing manner and stolen air quotes, “Want to ‘show me off’, then?”  
  
Harry responds earnestly. “Course I do. And Gemma said you look so serious in all the shoot photos, so I need to correct that false impression.”  
The teasing falters a pinch, and Louis looks back down into Harry’s lap. “Gemma your sister, I assume?”  
“Yeah, nice that you remember. That okay?”  
“Sure.” he pokes his abdomen, “Thought you _wanted_ ‘serious’ though.”  
“Serious _relationship_ , with not-so-serious you. Which sparked the serious thing in the first place,” he brushes his thumb over Louis’ cheek, “Always skipping on context, little bird.”  
“Cause a lot less drama if I didn’t. And isn’t that what you all _love_ about me?”  
  
He tenses up as soon as it’s said, a bitter old thing he hadn’t expected to come out, and Harry feels like he can see a whole internal monologue happening on his face. When it stops Louis looks back up at him, offering a small smile, and makes to turn away from him before Harry all but sputters a daft-sounding,

“Did Zayn call you?”  


The intensity in the switch is tremendous.  
  
“The fuck does zayn have to do with _anything_?”

Somehow, he keeps on talking. “He’s just come back from berlin, hasn’t he? Oh Lou, I’m sorry, I should’ve known this was all about that--”

“Do we really have to do this again? Haven’t we talked enough?”  
Where he was shooting daggers before, now Louis just looks pained. Harry suddenly gets the sense that he’s overstayed his welcome.  


“I mean… We don’t… But talking through it might help more in the long run than, um… acting out. I just want to make sure you’re not overwhelmed.”

“I’m always fucking overwhelmed. Zayn doesn’t mean shit to me.”  
Now that’s a lie. He’s a little shaken by how easily he might’ve missed it as such.  
“That’s not true.”  
“How would you know? We met like, last week, and suddenly you’ve got the transcripts of all my relationships with everyone?”  
So the daggers are back. Harry inhales.

“Doesn’t take an expert to figure out how close you were. I know you’re not good at talking but it helps, really does. If you talked to him...”

“For what? So we can exchange friendship bracelets again? I don’t have fucking time, Harry, I’d have thought you’d realise that while you’re crossing the days off until opening night. Can’t get away from it, and now I can’t get away from Zayn, even when he’s in a different fucking country. Can’t even have my boyfriend take my mind off it because he wants me to fucking ‘talk about it’, like talking ever did me any good. Like it didn’t land me in this mess in the first place. Fucking pointless.”  
  
He is quite awful when he gets like this, Harry thinks. Recognises the same huffy tone, the relentless insults, the pacing that Zayn had mentioned would drive him crazy. Flighty. His hands resume trembling as soon as he leaves them still, and Harry wonders if that’s why he argues with them so much. The short pause is enough for Louis to drop his defences down a fraction, so Harry tries again, low and constant, practical, like Louis likes.  
  
“Being that close. That doesn’t just… go away.”  
“Not that close, apparently,” he sniffs, and Harry wants to hold him closer than that.  
“I think he probably feels the same as you. And I don’t think finding out would be pointless.”  
  
Louis stays quiet after that, which suggests something’s at least sunk through. He’d be the last to admit it anyway, pulling his sleeves down over his fists and crossing his arms across his chest.  
“Hate that there’s no window in here.”  
“You need a smoke? We can go outside, it’s still pretty early...”  
“What about prior plans?”  
“I don’t think that’s what you really want right now. Think that’s just your go-to.”  
“Great. That makes me feel better.”

“What would make you feel better?”  
  
“My go-to. Promise.”  
  
Harry shakes his head, though it doesn’t mask the tell enough. They walk out of the room, down the corridors and out through stage door in contemplative silence, and Louis, having been given Harry’s coat, holds onto it over his shoulders as if it were a lifeline. Once outside, he lights his cigarette, then offers one to Harry as the polite thing to do (he declines), and blows out the smoke to watch as it rises up above them in filthy plumes.  
  
“I’d like Ondine to go well,” he says eventually, flicking the ashes off onto the ground between his feet.  
“It will. Promise.”  
  
It doesn’t soothe anything, so he lights another one before the last is finished, dropping it on the ground to put out and then picking it back up when he remembers that he’s with Harry. Another exhale, this one more grating, with harder words to follow.  
  
“‘M sorry for yelling at you. I didn’t mean that, about meeting last week. Stresses me out to think you might know me better than I do, and even that’s… my problem. Nothing to do with you. You don’t deserve me taking my shit out on you and… I’m sorry for doing that.”  
He might have said the right thing, for once, because Harry smiles all kinds of soft and Louis feels if he were anyone else it would be enough to absolve him of a lifetime of sin.  
“People always say the worst when they’re stressed. I won’t hold it against you, unless you do really feel that way.”  
“I don’t. And you’re right. I’m sorry for dragging you here for nothing.”  
“What’d you mean? We had a lovely chat, didn’t we?”

  
He cracks a smile at the hip bump, but only to recognise a new peace. There’s still a good hour of material left to sort through and feel guilty about. He thinks to start right then, were it not for Harry’s all-consuming concern.  
“Please, though, give him a call. Text him, message him, send an email, whatever. But the longer you leave it the worse it’s gonna be. And then you risk actually falling out and regretting it for the rest of your equally stubborn lives. That’s what I think.”  
  
Louis snuffs out the second cigarette on the wall behind them, moving that into his other hand with the first. Considering lighting a third, a hoarse cough guides him against it, and he slips his free hand through the respective coat arm.  
  
“You think a lot. Never the right things.”  
“We’ll see about that, yeah?”  
  
Harry looks brighter now, patient and waiting, and Louis wonders if that’s all it takes to undo hurt. Something well-meaning, something that sounds real. Wonders if it really matters if he does it again, or if this is the beginning of a cycle of forgetting and forgiving for the same catty remarks. They’re weak for it, both of them. Louis for using it and Harry for letting it go.  
  
So he can’t help but frown downwards, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet as if that might warm them up, until Harry is closer by his side and looking to cheer him up again.  
  
“What, little bird? You got more things to apologise for?”  
  
He thinks for moment, of all the things he could say, and how they rank on the scales for honesty, for kindness, for the better good, and swallows the guilt of ignoring them all.  
  
“Sorry for taking your coat. Sorry for littering.”  


_And I’m sorry this is all you get._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me not lie i'm not reading this through before i post it it's 3:23am, i've been writing this for like four days straight and its 6700 words. sorry if you don't like dialogue bc that's all this is oops
> 
> anyway there are now 2 chapters left and then i can edit how WILD is that !!
> 
> i've been maintaining a kind of quasi-schedule of kind-of-weekly updates for the past three chapters (i think ?) which really isn't a schedule at all but if you've been following the story in real time you'll know i take unofficial 6 month hiatuses twice a year so i'm counting it as an achievement. 
> 
> next chapter will likely not be out next week and chapter after that will either take me four hours or four months of solid writing time so who knows when that'll be done (can you believe there's going to be ACTUAL ballet in this BALLET au though ?? unbelievable.)
> 
> as always, thank you for reading, you can find me on 45teid.tumblr.com should you so wish and ?????? idk let's get this finished lmao
> 
> xx
> 
>  
> 
> UPDATE:
> 
> since starting to edit the previous chapters I have decided it makes more sense to finish editing and then write the final two chapters so that everything is actually cohesive as Part 1 before I post everything. This does however mean that I don't know when part one will be fully out, but trust that I am continuing to work on this, if slowly and very behind the scenes.
> 
> xx


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